UNWRITTEN
by ellymelly
Summary: A re-write of Broadchurch Season 3 with an added murder. Joe's body washes up on the shores of Broadchurch casting the town under suspicion while Miller and Hardy try to capture a serial rapist.
1. FALLING SHORT

Summer nights breathed life into Broadchurch. Its achingly brutal cliffs reared up from the black water, illuminated by spotlights from the village fair. The moon fell slowly through gaps in the clouds while the air, warm and layered with salt, tempted walkers later and later into the night. Their dogs paused at the edge of the cliffs to howl. Screams from the rides drifted into oblivion.

Beneath, the tide crawled forward. Inching up the ochre sand where it crashed against cold skin.

* * *

Detective Inspector Alec Hardy's seaside shack threatened to burst. Boxes, roughly packed, were smashed against every wall and re-purposed as desks, chairs and anything else he and his investigating partner Ellie Miller required. Lost somewhere in the chaos was his teenage daughter and a pen which he searched for relentlessly - the pen, not his daughter.

"Honestly, sir..." Miller swooped in to save a cup of tea as Hardy's elbow went for it. "When are you moving?"

"Last week." He snapped, falling to his knees. Hardy forced his way through a pile of newspaper he'd been using to wrap plates in.

"You look like a squirrel, you do," she added, sipping his tea. What difference did it make? They'd been staring at this board so long she'd forgotten how many children she had and where they were. "What I don't get," Miller continued, leaning toward their accumulated evidence, "is how they left the scene. Party that large a long way out of town - there's only one road. Either they drove there themselves, in which case they're on our list of number plates or they were picked up by the cab company. No one walked that. Not without being seen. Sir. Seriously. You're going to give yourself another heart attack."

"Miller I _had_ a pen. You saw me with a pen." He gave up, leaning against the boxes on the floor. "I mean, how does an object up and vanish like -" Hardy's eyes widened. The missing pen - _his_ missing pen was half-chewed approaching her lips as she prowled across the board again.

"Sorry sir, were you saying something?"

"It - never mind..." He used the boxes to drag himself back to his feet. No tea either. Hardy slid his glasses off, rubbed the bridge of his nose and fought off a yawn.

"I'm going to miss this shit hole." Miller added another photograph to their board. The ocean shack was far too small for her boss and his daughter but what it lacked in square metreage it made up for in personality. She stopped short of calling it 'charm'. Whatever the shack had, it wasn't that.

"You are not going to be able to stick pins in the wall of the new house," he warned her, watching another hole form where she stuck the photo of the car park.

"Are you going to get a proper board, sir?"

"No."

Miller shrugged. Pins in the wall it was.

"We're not going to close this case tonight. Why don't you go home. Get some rest. Feed those wee children of yours."

"Feed them?" Miller scoffed. "They are fed and better be in bed or I'll murder my father. I'm punishing him with free child minding services to make up for the lack of help he gave my late mother. Deserves every moment of it."

"Quite proud of yourself, aren' you?"

Miller was grinning. He was right, they'd come as far as they could tonight. "Is yours staying then?" She added, nodding absently in the direction of the main room where a teenager lurked. The faint tin-static of headphones was the only indication of its presence.

"So far. Thought it might put her off, you know - size o' this place and all but..." But his daughter survived the holidays, made good on her threat to enroll in the local school and two terms later, she was still here. Reality had only recently sunk in. "Can't stay here though," he lamented. "Stinks of the sea. Mayhem on that field behind." He meant where the passing fairs set up with all their coloured lights and irksome waves of happiness. "This new place it's - well it's bigger." And that was the best compliment he could pay it.

Miller offered a sympathetic smile. She wasn't privy to everything but her superior detective skills led her to deduce trouble with the ex-wife and problems with the daughter's school had landed Hardy with a daughter to raise on his own. Like her, he was doing his best. At least his heart was in the right place, even if his common sense wasn't always on point. "Closer to her school."

He nodded. "That's important. I don't like her walking about in the dark. Not after..." He nodded to their case on the wall. Trish Winterman's photo occupied the centre of the board. This time the victim wasn't dead but for a while there she may as well have been. Those eyes haunted the detectives every time they passed the wall. Its contents was the only thing left unpacked.

"See you later this morning then, sir." Miller set the stolen tea down and reached for her bright orange coat. It was still damp from the passing shower that afternoon. The night outside was clear and warm so there was no need to wear it.

Hardy checked his watch. "That late already?" He answered his own question and frowned. "Do you want me to walk you back to your car?"

She scoffed at him. "Seriously, sir? Anything that comes near me is going over the edge of that bloody cliff. I've had enough of men for the moment. You don't count, sir," she amended, at his hurt look. Her caveat didn't have quite the effect she was after so she offered a smile and dipped her head. "Nice night for a walk anyway."

"Right, 'ave it your way," he replied. That said, he waited longer than he should, watching her fade into the dark before he closed his door on the fresh air and constant hum of fishing trawlers making their way through the harbour.

He turned back to the contents of his shack in dismay. No seriously, he really did have to move soon before he ended up on one of those interest segments on American cable. _'Broadchurch man found mummified by cardboard boxes inside shack.'_ Miller would enjoy that.

"I know you're in there..." He addressed the area where his living room once stood. Eventually he found his daughter plugged into the Matrix via a ludicrous set of purple headphones with conflicting emojis. He had to go as far as sliding them off her head before he could catch her attention.

"Dad..."

"Don't, 'Dad' me," he replied, but his tone was patient. "Midnight, we agreed."

"It's nearly two-"

"-exactly. Now that's two hours you owe me later."

"Dad!"

"Bed." Hardy's eyebrows folded together as a thought struck him. He spun in slow circles, eyeing the room. "What did we do with your bed?"

* * *

DS Miller kept her smile all the way to the cliff walk. The truth was, she'd never driven to his shack in the first place and now faced a lengthy walk, all along the edge of the famous cliffs then down through the centre of town. Nearly half an hour but after the week they'd had, Miller welcomed the peace. There was something about the constant crash of the waves below - the infinite stretch of water indiscernible from the night sky.

The clouds had blown away leaving stars in their wake. She paused near a lonely bench at the height of the walk and simply revelled in the darkness. The revelation took her breath. She was never going to leave this place. They'd have to put her in the ground on that graveyard o'er yonder or toss her dust off the edge.

Miller spared a moment's thought for Danny Latimer. The cliffs would always hold his ghost but Miller tried to think of him as another story - another life that came and went within Broadchurch instead of a restless spirit.

It wasn't only her DI who'd considered moving. She'd moved herself and the boys closer to the school in the last year. The life of a single working parent was difficult enough without the long trek in from the sports fields. Her house was smaller, especially with her dad living with them but they were making do. As long as they were together where she could keep an eye on her eldest. His approaching teenage years had worried her long before his father murdered Tom's best friend. Now they terrified her. She'd started thinking of her son as a rigged explosive.

She sighed, lingering at Tom's bedroom door later that morning. No. He was her little boy. There was no way that she was going to allow the crimes of his father to shape his life. Tom deserved better than that. Somehow she was going to find more time to spend with him. If that's what he wanted. Teenager... Maybe that was the last thing he wanted.

The rest of the house was asleep so Miller put herself quietly to bed and found herself watching the minutes tick past on her digital clock. Its glaring red numbers fuelled her insomnia. The police therapist had never been able to do anything about that. Time, they'd told her, would heal the rest. Well, Miller was pretty sure she was stuck with the nightmares. What did therapists know?

* * *

Eventually the tide reached the body at the base of the cliffs. The moon was low, nearly consumed by the gentle curve of the water. The approaching dawn was barely a shade of black on the opposing horizon. Salt, frothed by the impact, caught on a shirt. It bubbled up between the cracks. Burst. Died. Deposited all manner of sea-filth. Later the crabs were drawn out of the sand. They moved cautiously, testing the corpse with their pincers. Slicing dozens of gashes in the flesh until they became bold enough to settle in for their feast, shoveling handfuls of it into their mouths while their eyes bobbed on sticks, backwards and forwards in a dance under the moonlight.

The morning light chased them away only to be replaced by a flock of gulls that trampled over the body. One sat down on the head and observed the receding tide. Another scratched idly at a fresh crab hole.

* * *

"Do you have to be so cheery all the time?" Hardy complained, when he found his DS already exchanging pleasantries with the new recruit DC Harford in the kitchen.

Harford excused herself leaving Miller gnawing on a piece of toast. "You could try saying, 'morning' every now and then if you don't want to frighten them off."

"If they're frightened by me then they're in the wrong job," Hardy countered, eyeing Miller's piece of toast for a moment before thinking better of it.

He had a point, so Miller moved on. "Soon as you find yourself something, we're off."

"Off? Off where..."

"Another one of them suicides at the cliffs," she replied. "What's that - three since the start of the year? Terrible, don't you think? Is life really so hopeless that the only solution is hurling yourself into oblivion?"

"Especially those cliffs."

"What about our cliffs?" Miller was suddenly defensive. "Are you saying that the Broadchurch cliffs aren't as good a place as any to end it?"

"Well - they are a wee bit bleak, don' you think?" He replied carefully. "I mean - if you're going to go for the cliff hanger somewhere like Dover has got to be a better option. Least it makes for a good view on the way down. What?"

"I take back what I said earlier. Don't try to speak to the new staff."

* * *

Last night' Summer promise had turned cold. Miller donned her jacket which bordered on fluorescent. Hardy considered wearing sunglasses solely to cut through the glare created by the orange monstrosity. She only wore it to annoy him, of that, he was certain.

They leaned over the edge of the cliff together, peering down. It was a long way, too far to see anything other than the basic shape of a body at the bottom. Police tape boxed off the section of the cliff.

"God, I must have must missed them," Miller said, pulling herself back from the edge before she got vertigo. "Walked right past 'ere last night. Least it's not a kid this time."

"Did you see anyone up here?"

"Not a soul. It was quiet. Beautiful." She was lost for a moment. "I wonder if they were already down there."

"We'll know soon enough. Your mate from forensics is on his way." Hardy nodded at the white blur far below.

"Brian has a name."

* * *

By the time they meandered around the track that led to the beach, Brian had finished his initial assessment. He leaned over the body in an odd pose, disbelief etched in his usually blank facade. As soon as he heard the approaching _crunch_ of the detectives, he turned and strode out to meet them.

"What you doing, Brian?" Elllie asked, as Brian stepped across their path. "Come to escort us to the body? Let us have a look first, then you can offload your theories. Brian? Don't go touching me with those gloves of yours!" She added, when he took her gently by the arms in a move that caused Hardy to take a second look.

"Ellie it's-"

"DS Miller," she corrected, conscious of Hardy looming beside her. He went to step around Brian but their rather forward SOCO quickly reached across with a hand on Hardy's chest. "Brian."

"The jumper is a man, mid forties." Brian began, not quite sure how to proceed.

"Honestly Brian, if you don't get to the point-"

"Joe. It's Joe – Ellie." Brian felt Ellie push against him, intent on storming over to the boy but he pushed back, keeping her grounded. Hardy hadn't moved, possibly because he understood...

"Well that's – that's-" Miller didn't know how to react. She'd lost count of how many times she'd fantasied about finding her ex-husband on the beach of Broadchurch – cold and dead. In many of those fantasies she'd been the one to push him over the cliffs. There was something deeply satisfying about the thought she couldn't shake no matter how much therapy she attended. Miller tried to look again, moving slowly this time.

"Landed on his back," Brian added carefully, finally releasing his hold on the two detectives. "Fisherman found him this morning. He's over there, giving a statement." He nodded at the edge of the water where a man was bookended by a pair of uniforms.

"Bloody hell..." Hardy gaped at the fisherman. "That look like Aaron Mayford ter you?"

"Your convicted rapist out on parole is also a keen fisherman."

"We know," Miller scoffed, trying not to focus on the body. "That's the alibi he gave us for Trish Winterman's assault."

An awkward silence fell between them. "I can let you have a look at the body – if that's what you want," Brian added, carefully, "but neither of you can get too close."

"No," Hardy shook his head firmly. "When the chief finds out who that man is lying on the beach we'll be taken off the case immediately. Call it in."

"Sir, you can't be seriou-"

"Miller!" He snapped – too sharply. He followed it with a softer, "Miller..." then led her away.

* * *

They sat in Miller's car for a long time. It was perched near the top of the cliffs. Police milled back and forth outside their windows. Miller simply stared at the water with Hardy watching her.

"Penny for your thoughts, Miller..."

"People don' really say that," she replied, absently. "Why'd he have to go and do it here, you know?" She asked. "Of all the places. He was _gone_. Faded into oblivion. Fred can't even remember him, thank god and Tom – well, he was starting to move on. Now this. _Now this_. What a selfish, son a bitch he was, right to the end."

"Miller, he landed on his back. You know what the report is going to say. It's no secret that there are a lot of people in this town clamouring to see the end of Joe."

"Who even knew he was here?" Miller picked at her steering wheel. "He was gone." She repeated. Every time she said it, mirth thickened in her tone. "Now we have to deal with all his shit again. Oh Christ!" This time she slammed her fist into the wheel. "Tom. I've got to tell Tom."

The rest of her comment was so coloured that even Hardy looked away to the ocean.

* * *

Like seagulls, the press flocked to the beach, picking their way through the curious and horrified – ducking under police lines until their flashes rippled against the morning light.

"Hey!" Brian was nearly blinded. He stood up and stalked over to a pair of familiar faces. "Come on, Maggie... A little dignity."

"Dignity – really?" Maggie Radcliffe nudged Olly to keep snapping. "For that monster?"

Brian deflated. "Two minutes. By the time I get back, you're gone. Right?"

"Right-O." Olly knelt on the sand for a better shot. He twisted the aperture. _Flash_. Shuffled forward under the blue and white line. _Flash_.

* * *

"How long can we keep it out of the news?" Hardy asked.

"Tomorrow morning," one of the uniforms replied.

He turned to Miller and shrugged. "Up to you what you want to do."

"Tom is still at school. Exams all day – no chance he'll hear about it. Might as well wait it out. Has anyone been around to the Latimers?"

There was no easy way for Hardy to say this. "Not yet. They're waiting for a formal ID on the body and – well..." He eyed her.

"Bastard!" She hissed, directed at Joe's corpse. Miller snatched her purse off the table. "Come on then, let's get this over with." She didn't have to ask him to come with her. Hardy _knew_ that he had to. Miller was never one to seek help but every now and then she needed it. "You know, we don't have time for this." She added, as they traipsed toward the morgue. "We've got a rapist prowling around Broadchurch and here we are, chasing bloody ghosts. Not very interesting ones either. What are you doing?" She startled, when she felt his hand gently on her back. "Don' do that."

"Thought you might want some comfort or-"

Miller didn't.

* * *

The sheet pealed back and there was no denying it was him. He looked exactly the same except thinner. With his shaved head and sallow cheeks he was nearly a skeleton already. Miller tried to imagine him as one. In the ground where he belonged. Like Danny. God, she would never shake the image of Danny Latimer, dragged out of the ground on account of Joe.

"Yes." Miller said firmly. "That is my ex-husband, Joe Miller."

Positive ID confirmed, she turned tail and pushed the doors open leaving Hardy to stare at the corpse a moment longer. He preferred to see monsters rotting in tiny cells. Death – well death seemed like a cop out. Joe had escaped his punishment, twice now. The Latimers and and Millers had to live with his crimes for the rest of their lives. It wasn't common for Hardy to hate people but he _hated_ Joe for what he'd done.

He gave a nod to the officer and watched the sheet laid back over.

Let that be the last time Joe got to see the light of day.

* * *

Hardy watched Miller through his office. She was behind her desk, dragging through files with a half-eaten bacon roll going cold along with the coffee he'd bought her earlier. He argued with himself for a while before crossing over to her and carefully perching on her desk. She had to wrestle a file out from under him but other than that, his presence went unnoticed.

"Take the afternoon off, Miller," he advised. "You don't have to be 'ere. Under the circumstances."

If ever there was a face of a murderer, it was DS Miller. "Are you spare, sir?" She tapped her monitor screen with enough force that it rocked back and forth until Hardy reached over and stopped it. "There's hours and hours of footage from the road outside the manor to go through. Someone's got to do it and I don't trust that new one-"

"-DC Harford-"

"-to go through it. Attention spans aren't what they were, sir. You have a daughter. How long before she gets bored? Most of them can't even make their way through the front page of a newspaper. If this is where society is heading, count me out. All this clicking and swiping. Civilisation of bloody goldfish."

Hardy blinked slowly. "All right, you can stay long as you promise not ter rampage through the office, takin' it out on the young DC."

"I don't _rampage_ ," she insisted but Hardy just smiled in reply. "Sir – _Sir!_ " Miller was on her feet before Hardy could get away. "You're not going to believe this. Notification just came through. There's been another rape. Fairground. Yesterday evening. They want us down there."

"Wha' – my fairground?"

"The fairground on the field behind your old shack. Yes. One of the part time workers was on her way home. _What_?" Miller caught their new DC approaching fearfully.

"Apologies for interrupting..." DC Harford edged in. "About the incident this morning. The-"

Miller was impatient. "My ex-husband at the base of the cliff."

"There's been an official ruling. Death has been listed as suspicious. They've got a DI on the way over from Slockville to head up the investigation. You need to be here when he arrives."

"What time is that?" Hardy asked.

"Three."

Hardy grabbed his coat which had been left on Miller's desk. "Plenty of time. Come on, Miller."

* * *

The fairground was a stone's throw from the cliff. Miller looked toward it fora moment, distracted.

"I told you, Miller, didn't I? Never liked this place." He was muttering at the fair with all its beautiful lights strung up over the field, tying together a seemingly endless array of striped tents. The grass was littered with soggy popcorn and crushed soft drink cans, decorated with fragments of coloured rubber from dead balloons.

"What's wrong with you?" She asked. "Everyone loves going to the fair. Never met anyone who didn't like it. Especially by the sea." Even with the devastating reality of what happened here last night, Miller still loved it.

"You've met me."

This time, she shifted her gaze to her rather scruffy boss. He really did look perturbed by the forced intrusion into the heart of society. "One day you'll understand," she assured him, "if you stay here long enough. Places like this, they get under your skin."

It was pure coincidence that he scratched his hands a moment later.


	2. A THOUSAND COLOURED LIGHTS

"Where's the girl?" Hardy announced his presence with a question. He and Miller ducked under the police tape tied around one of the tents. The crime scene was at the back in a sodden patch of mud beside a cheap generator on its last legs. Diesel laced the air along with a near-choking level of smoke.

"None of us are getting near her for a while." Rhodes, another DI emerged from the tent, ducking low. "Being processed as we speak. That said, this looks like it might be one of yours, that's why I called."

They followed Rhodes to a string of wire surrounded by the shattered remains of coloured bulbs. A few of them were still attached to the wire. It was part of the vast network of fairy-lights, snatched out of the air and snapped off the pole at the far end of the tent.

"With one marked difference," he added, squatting near the wire. He pointed to a pool of blood that had worked its way from the wire to a fragment of a globe where it congealed in a sickening puddle. "The attacker has used this instead of twine. They are opportunistic and brutal. It takes a fair bit of force to yank that line free."

"We haven't met," Hardy observed, fishing for information on DI Rhodes who was older than Hardy, edging to sixty rather than fifty but maintained a lean figure. The stark streaks of white in his hair reminded Hardy of a fish. A set of rimless glasses caught a speck of rain.

"DI Rhodes," he nodded in reply. "DI Hardy, DS Miller..." Rhodes knew who they were. "Your reputation precedes you."

"I wouldn't believe everything you read in the Broadchurch local," Hardy advised. There were a lot of things in print that he wished he could erase. It was one of the reasons he stayed away from the internet. Media was a vicious place and his name was all over it. "And you're from?"

"Slockville."

Miller took half a step backwards in amazement. "You the new DI?"

"Bit early, I know," he replied. "I was already in Broadchurch when I got the call this morning. This rape victim, she's from down my way but as soon as I saw the similarities between the cases I requested it be transferred to your team." Rhodes looked toward the cliffs. "When we're done here, I was hoping I could hop a lift back with you to the station and check in. We have much to discuss."

Almost immediately, Hardy and Miller felt as though they were being watched with a great deal more than a passing curiosity. Although no one had said it aloud, Rhodes was here because Hardy and Miller were too close to the murder victim. Far too close. Rhodes was doing his best to maintain his polite, professional manners as they went through the motions of the rape crime scene but the truth was there, in the back of all their minds.

"CCTV?" Miller stood beneath a camera and pointed up hopefully.

"All night," Rhodes confirmed. "We're having it boxed up. Now, it's not pointing quite the right direction but it gives us an idea of who was here. You can cross-check it with the footage from that manor-house party."

"Was gonna..." Miller muttered under her breath. The last thing she needed today was someone coming down from god-knows-where dishing out unwanted advice. Rhodes was correct, however, there _were_ striking similarities between the victims. Gagged. Bound. Hit from behind. It was not as clean as the others, to be sure but too close to be coincidence.

When the rain set in there was nothing more they could do. Miller drove everyone back to the station. An odd, stoic trip with the new DI in the front and Hardy folded up in the back like some kind of anorexic insect. Their small talk was forced to the point of snapping with the conversation carefully steered away from the glaring elephant – the body at the cliffs.

Approaching the station was the most difficult part. Several of their colleagues leaned over the balcony, watching as the fresh blood was led in. Rhodes barely noticed. Miller got the feeling that he'd seen too much of _everything_ over the years to be bothered by the unfolding soap opera.

Inside, Rhodes split from Hardy and Miller to vanish into the Chief's office. Doors closed, blinds shuttered. It was difficult not to wonder at the conversation going on behind.

"Don't waste a thought on it," Hardy advised, giving Miller that stern eye he reserved just for her. "We've got more important things to worry about – like another victim. They're stacking up and our rapist is getting more brazen."

Miller was trying not to think about the approaching conversation with her son. "Has a predilection for parties or large gatherings. The attacks happen when the victim is alone yet _all of them_ had recently left some kind of event. Either our attacker hears about them on the news or-"

"-or spends a lot of time hunting large events. Have we checked back through the cold cases that have come forward?"

"I did. No footage. The fairground is only the second time there were cameras in the area and even then, both vantage points are not directly on the crime scene. Best we can do is trawl through it looking for connections – whatever those might be."

An activity that would likely take weeks. They both paused and glanced at their Chief's door in unison. It wasn't the first time they'd been on this side of the fence where Joe Miller was concerned and they equally hated the feeling.

"What do you think?" Hardy asked. "Of Rhodes..."

Miller shrugged. "Not much to think, is there? Pretty average sort of a bloke. Looks a bit like they cut him out of the Times and pasted him into Broadchurch. Detectives for hire..."

"You'll have to keep your boy away from those articles..." Hardy changed subject. It was inevitable that Joe Miller's death would make front page.

"Oh yeah? How do you expect me to do that? He's a teenager with a phone and a computer. Just my luck he already knows."

"I thought you confiscated his phone?"

She nodded. "I forgot about that."

"Any plans to give it back to him?"

"Not in a million bloody years."

Hardy almost couldn't believe what had happened this morning. Joe Miller was gone – out of everyone's lives and now he'd washed up on their doorstep. Forensics were yet to pass judgment on the body but everyone was thinking it – whispering the silent question with their eyes. _Who killed Joe Miller?_ Frankly, at this point, Hardy didn't care. Unfortunately CID did.

* * *

"Is _that_ what you're really running with?" Maggie hovered over Olly's shoulder. His monitor displayed an abstract photo of a slightly out of focus seagull – enormous in the foreground with the Broadchurch cliffs rearing up behind and the outline of a body below. The only part of it that he'd manage to focus was the diagonal police line. Its white and blue checks reached out of the screen they were so crisp. "Actually, I quite like it," she was forced to admit. There was an unusual air about it, like most things in Broadchurch. "Tasteful, as much as you can be with a murder story."

"Murder?" Olly lifted his head. "I thought it was suicide."

"Oh pet..." she pitied the young. "You think it's an accident that man ends up at the bottom of those cliffs? Nah. He was put there to lay ghosts to rest."

"Speaking of... aren't you headed into town to see Jocelyn?"

"Stop sniffing for a story, Olly. You're not going to find one."

"Genuinely interested in your wellbeing!" He countered defensibly.

"You are not, spring chicken. Now go on – finish up that crop so we can see what this is going to look like."

"There was another rumour I heard," he added, testing her patience, "about head office closing all the small branches. Reeling us in. Is that going to happen to us?"

"I don't know, Olly, you're generation i or z or whatever it is. What do you think? Is there a future in selling newspapers? Maybe there is – maybe there isn't. You can return to that question as soon as you _finish getting the damn photo ready_."

* * *

"Oh _shit_!"

The exclamation was so loud that half the police station lifted their heads. Miller's was the only one that went down, slamming into the surface of the desk.

Brian was passing when it happened. "You all right?" He asked, carefully. Miller was a bit of a mixed bag. She could be lovely, caring – funny. A real charmer. Alternatively you ended up with your head ripped off and half your entrails scattered over the station.

"Tom – I have to go get Tom and – and tell him."

"Oh – right..." Brian, ever the awkward one, wasn't sure how to reply to that. "Do you – need – ah..." Actually, he couldn't think of what he could offer her but he kind of wanted to offer _something_.

Miller took pity on him. "Could you tell DI Hardy that I've gone out?"

"Right, ay."

She'd almost made it to the door before she heard Rhodes call her name.

* * *

Miller had to wait while everyone in the station was gathered together. Hardy joined her, nearly the last to arrive. He didn't say anything – materialising with half a cup of cold tea and his glasses askew. Hardy always looked as though he'd fallen out of bed directly into the office.

Rhodes had no trouble drawing everyone together. He was a curiosity that hadn't been around long enough to gather any poor humour or dry nicknames. Hardy was already wondering what they'd give him. _Badger_ , maybe, with that hair. Anything was in better taste than _Shitface_.

"Settle down now," Rhodes lifted both his hands, attempting to quiet the room. He had a hell of a job. Broadchurch was a rowdy mob. "My name is DI Rhodes. I am on loan from Slockville which means I have to be returned in the same state you found me." He paused for the hum of amusement.

Hardy was instantly jealous of Rhodes' easy manner. No one listened to his conferences unless he growled, the louder the better. His eyebrows were practically joined in the middle making one giant Scottish line of permanent displeasure.

"As you might have heard this morning, this station has a unique and complex situation to deal with that has arisen from the sudden death of Joe Miller found at the base of the cliffs this morning. I'm sure the man needs no introduction but suffice to say there will be media attention and sensitive issues to deal with, not least of which is this department's previous dealings with the Miller case. The circumstances surrounding the death of Danny Latimer and subsequent trial mean that your usual friendly faces, DI Hardy and DS Miller are unable to partake in the murder investigation. They will instead continue pursuing the rape of Trish Winterman and others."

Miller tried very hard not to be infuriated by his perfect handling of the situation.

"To achieve this, we are dividing this station into two teams. You are being emailed the details after this meeting. Please make sure that you read through the instructions carefully and be aware who your new team leader is.

"Those of you working on the Winterman rape, there has been another victim. DI Hardy has prepared a list of urgent requests to work though. For the rest of you, there are a couple of time sensitive duties to attend, both of which will take me out of the office."

He followed up with a few minor details but there was barely an eyebrow raised. Everything seemed perfectly normal even though both Hardy and Miller knew where this was heading. Oh sure, it was sunshine and roses now but very soon they'd find themselves sitting in an interview room with all the hell of the past thrown back on the table. Hardy was not looking forward to that and neither was Miller if her current glower was anything to go by.

When he was finished, Rhodes joined them at the door. "All right," he said carefully. "DS Miller – are you ready?"

"Does it really have to be like this?"

"Afraid so." Rhodes was surprised to find DI Hardy lingering at the door as if he intended to come along. For a moment, Hardy assessed the situation and then thought better of it, sinking back into the office to manage his team.

Miller _felt_ him leave. He'd been there through every wretched moment caused by Joe and suddenly he was gone, replaced by this _Rhodes_. When they were alone in the car, Rhodes stopped DS Miller, his hand on the steering wheel.

"I meant what I said," Rhodes added, with an oddly genuine amount of sincerity. "I _am_ sorry it has to be like this but I do have to take statements from you and your boy today."

"And my father," Miller said coldly. "He is staying with us at the moment to help look after the boys. My youngest is not yet in school and after Joe..." Even saying his name made her feel rather ill. "Well, I had to find other arrangements. You will need to add him to your list."

Rhodes nodded. "Thank you. I-" He wanted to say something else but it wasn't the time.

* * *

Miller parked in the street and spent a moment staring at the curious house she'd chosen. It was not as beautiful as her old home but at least she didn't see Danny's ghost playing in every corner of. A fresh start. It was the closest they could get without leaving Broadchurch and Miller flat refused to be chased out of her home.

Rhodes made no attempt to hurry her. Worse, he was observing. Though his speech made him appear open and friendly his eyes were as sharp as the sea. He trusted no one and nothing except what he dug up himself. In all his years he'd found the most important information came at the beginning. First impressions – they were everything – before lies and time could build webs over the truth. That first moment spoke volumes.

"You coming or not, then?"

Somehow DS Miller was already outside the car waiting for him. As they crossed the road, Rhodes was certain he could hear the waves crashing up against those god-awful cliffs and his own heartbeat marking their steps.

* * *

"Sir. _Sir_." DC Harford slid the paper across DI Hardy's desk to catch his attention. He was lost in the view beyond the window, focused on the thin blue line where the Summer sun caught the ocean. "Details on the victim at the fairground. Rhodes had them sent direct."

Hardy retrieved his glasses from atop his head and levelled a curious frown in Harford's direction. "You were allocated to our investigation?"

"Surprising, I know," Harford replied. "I thought with my father having been in custody for _sure_ I'd be placed on the murder. I'm one of the only people 'round here that had nothing to do with Joe Miller's case. Never even met him."

Hardy immediately smelled a rat but if this was Rhodes' idea of planting a sleeper, he was awkwardly transparent about it. "Well, we mustn't question the new Lord Commander..." He teased, although his tone was as dry as ever.

The file was thick and well set out for a victim they'd only come across six hours ago.

"They're getting younger and younger," Hardy muttered. "Have we found what she was hit with yet?"

"No. There are uniforms out there searching the grounds but as you can see-" she nodded at the window. It was raining again. It had been doing that on and off all morning, laying waste to their crime scenes. "Forensics say it was something long and flat like a bat or piece of wood. The victim was hit with quite a bit of force. They're watching her at the moment in case a concussion develops into something more serious. Stitches as well – across the back of her head. She was lucky he didn't kill her."

" _Lucky_ is not an emotion I expect she's considered." Hardy laid the file down and took his first proper look at the DC hovering at his deak. Miller disliked her because she was too young for this position. It was meant to be earned through virtual slavery. Hour upon hour of shit until you emerged with a desk and a badge. Hardy trusted his life to Miller. He wouldn't trust this one with a lunch order. Good intentions counted for the square of jack shit in the real world.

"You should know, sir..." Harford waited for her boss to look up. "This victim is different. She has expressed a _strong_ desire to make a statement. She's a fighter. First thing tomorrow, you and Miller can take a statement."

The rain outside set in. The view blurred into a sheet of grey and blue that bled off the surface into the drains below.

* * *

The hammering rain was deafening.

Rhodes remained in living room-come-dining area where DS Miller's father, David Barrett, took a seat at the dining table with a bemused expression. They had told him on the way in that Joe Miller was found at the base of the cliff but the information hadn't had a chance to sink by the time Miller managed to drag her teenage son into the room.

"Tom Miller?" Rhodes asked carefully. The boy reminded him of his own son at that age. A sullen, dejected façade with permanent shadows etched under glassy eyes. Tom's reply was a half-nod and cautious glance at his mother who dragged a chair out for him to sit on. He didn't. "I am DI Rhodes – I work with your mother. Do you know why I'm here?"

The boy dipped his head again. "Has it got something to do with dad?"

Even hearing the word 'dad' from his lips made Miller's blood boil but there was nothing she could do about that biological fact. "Are you sure you won't sit down?"

"Has he done it again?" Tom asked. "To another-" He didn't finish that sentence.

Rhodes softened. "No it's nothing like that. Tom, your father was found this morning on the beach."

Tom's response was undefinable. He wore it like a veil, silent as he listened to the account of his father's death. Rhodes never said the word, 'murder' but the tone gave him away, as did his final question.

"I am terribly sorry to have to do this to you-"

"S'fine." Tom mumbled.

"Do you remember where you were between ten o'clock last night and four this morning?"

"Studied for a while after dinner. There were exams today. I'm not sure exactly when but I guess around one I went to bed."

"And you were at home – all night."

"'course."

"Did you see anyone or talk to anyone – maybe online even?"

Tom shook his head. "I was studying. All of us were. There was no one about to talk to."

Miller gave Rhodes the, _'that's enough'_ look and he agreed. The boy had just been informed that his father was dead.

"I'll need him to come down the station later and issue a formal statement," Rhodes said to Miller, after Tom retreated back into his bedroom and locked the door. "Mister Barrett?" He turned his questions to Miller's father. "Can you confirm where you were at the same time mentioned?"

"Here." Barrett replied. "Fed the little one first – Fred," he clarified, remembering that he was speaking with a police officer. "Then I put him to bed around eight. Tom was already home – straight to his room as normal. I think I heard him come down through the kitchen around about that time for some food but that was all. I nodded off on the couch watching the news and put myself to bed around, gosh, must have been half-eleven. There was a light under Tom's door so I knocked and said goodnight but he had his ear-things on. That was it. I was asleep from then until breakfast next morning."

Rhodes was taking notes in a tiny, red book. "Same as Tom, we will need you to come down and make a statement. Routine, you understand."

"I've a police officer for a daughter," Barrett pointed out.

"Or course." Rhodes replied pleasantly. "Thank you for your time. DS Miller..." He hinted for her to follow him outside.

"You'll be looking for my statement too," she said, when they were alone in the street.

"Yes. I was hoping we could go through that when we return to the station before that, I was wondering if you could do me a favour..."

 _This will be good..._ Ellie caught herself thinking. "Sir?"

"As a courtesy, my next stop is the Latimer house. Considering you know the family and well... This is not exactly by the book but..."

"You want me to come with you?"

"I'd like _you_ to be the one to break the news. I had a long chat with the Chief before we left and she told me all about Danny Latimer's case. Your ex-husband's death is a closing chapter for them. This is if you wish. It's not an order. I understand that you have lost your ex-husband as well."

"Do not, in my presence, continue referring to him as my ex-husband if you want to keep being chauffeured around. That man, he _destroyed_ our lives here then sauntered off into the sunset. Sorry..." She added quickly, realising she'd snapped at her superior. "It's been a long day. Come on, the Latimer's have waited long enough for this news."

* * *

"I knew it..." Beth stepped back from the door after opening it to Miller and another man who was obviously a detective. "Everyone's talking about it."

"May we come in, Beth?" Miller asked gently.

"The whole town," Beth continued. "Who else could it be? It's him, isn't it? It's him..."

"Beth, this is DI Rhodes," Miller gestured toward Rhodes. "Please Beth – don't make us do this outside on the step." The rain was soaking them through.

Chloe was in and joined her mother and little sister on the couch while Miller and Rhodes sat opposite in a mirror of the day they spoke of Danny's death. This time the panicked desperation and mellowed into a hopeful wave of justice. Beth _wanted_ it to be Joe. It was written in her eyes.

"There was a body found on the beach this morning under the cliffs," Miller confirmed. "It was Joe."

"Good."

"We wanted to tell you before the papers begin reporting it tomorrow," Miller continued. "It would be reasonable to expect that Danny's case and Joe's story will be fodder for the next few weeks. I'm sorry, there's nothing that we can do about that."

"I'm sorry for you too, Ellie," Beth replied. "It'll be your life they drag up this time. Yours and Tom's and Fred's."

All the while, Rhodes watched them.

"It sounds insensitive," Rhodes finally spoke, "but I do need to ask."

"Believe me, DI Rhodes," Beth assured the detective. "There is nothing you can say to me that will surprise or offend. Not any more."

He was looking into the eyes of a woman that had seen hell and survived it. "I will, however, attempt to be brief." Then he asked her the same question as the Miller's and received a similar answer. Home. Alone. Dinner and then bed. This seemed to be the life in Broadchurch. A quiet, sleepy town on the edge of the cliffs. "And your husband, Mrs Latimer, was he here with you last night?"

For the first time, Beth became awkward. "Mark is – going through a difficult time. He likes to be by himself. Helps him think. Quite often he sleeps in his van. Last night was one of those nights. Miller has his number. You will have to call him."

That was where they ended. Miller and Beth shared a lingering hug by the door before stepping into the pouring rain.

* * *

"You're half drowned!" Hardy exclaimed, when he saw the state Miller was in when she sidled back into his office. "You'll leave a wet patch on the carpet and all."

"Thank you for your concern, boss." She shrugged out of her orange jacket and hung it up on the back of the door so that it could drown the floor below. Then she rang out her pony tail. All of this was watched by an increasingly irritated DI Hardy. "That week of fine weather we had – of course it was going to end like this."

"I didn't think you were coming back today. What about Tom?"

"I'm about as interesting as algebra to him at the moment," she sighed. "He wanted to be alone. I don't think it's a good idea to push him. Rhodes wants our statements soon. I'm going in a moment but I wanted to check in on you. Did they give us much of a team to work with?"

"Very generous, under the circumstances and our victim is looking to talk so that's something. Oh god. No rest for the wicked. Here he is now."

* * *

Rhodes worked alone. It was a concept foreign to Miller and one she found somewhat intimidating as she was led into the interview room. This wasn't his fault. He had no choice. She was the ex-wife of the murdered child-killer.

"Do you want a tea or a coffee?" Rhodes asked, before they started. He had a small pile of files prepared on the table, topped by his notebook. Rhodes was also lightly dusted in water so he turned up the heater in the room allowing them to both dry off. When she was ready, he turned on the tape.

Miller stated her name, confirmed her relationship with the deceased and then waited with a morbid curiosity for Rhodes' questions.

"Let's start with your movements last night." He laid out the times and dates – re-hashing the question in painful detail for the tape.

"I was working on the Winterman rape case with DI Hardy at his home. We often continue our discussions on active cases after work and considering the imminent danger of re-offense, we were logging longer hours than normal. His daughter was also present in the house until I finished up around two, I think. I returned home by quarter to three – checked in on the boys and went to bed."

"DI Hardy's house is?"

"On the water, behind the field where the fair is set up."

"Did we drive that route today?"

"Very nearly," Miller replied.

"It's only around ten minutes, would that be correct?"

"By car," Miller explained. "I walked from DI Hardy's house to mine. It's an easy walk and after a difficult day it helps to clear my head."

"Where does that walk take you?"

"Across the front of the fair, up onto the cliff track. I'd have walked right by the area Joe fell from. After that, it comes out at the Western edge of town. I followed Swan Street then around into Lyda Avenue. I walk it often."

There was an extended pause this time while Rhodes processed the information. He had not expected Miller to appear so close to the crime scene. That complicated things.

"Did you see anyone while you were walking near the cliffs?"

Miller shook her head then added for the tape. "No. It was quiet. There were a few people at the fair but they were a long way off."

"And did you see Joe Miller's body under the cliffs?"

"No. I stayed on the path. You can't see much except the water from there. When DI Hardy and I first attended the crime scene this morning – this is before we knew the identity of the victim, we had to walk right to the edge to see anything. It's very dangerous. I doubt anyone could have seen him."

"Please keep to the questions, DI."

"Sorry. No. I didn't see him."

Despite the paperwork sitting next to him, Rhodes never once referred to any of it. "When was the last time you saw Joe Miller alive?"

"The day he left Broadchurch," she replied. "Twelfth of August. It was late in the afternoon."

"And since then, have you had any contact at all either email, phone calls – txts?"

"Nothing." Miller said firmly. "You have to understand – Joe was _dead_ to us. To the whole town. We moved on without him."

"Final question, for the moment." He was still writing in his book. "Do you know if Joe owned a vehicle?"

"I couldn't tell you."

* * *

After the interview, Miller retreated to the bathroom where she rested against the cool tiles and listened to the rain. It was muffled in this part of the building but the sound of it soothed her. There were hot tears running down both her cheeks but for the life of her she couldn't work out why. They refused to stop, no matter now many times she wiped them away.

" _Christ_ sir!" She startled at Hardy's sudden appearance in the womens' bathroom. "You've _got_ to stop doing that."

"I will. Soon as I stop finding you in 'ere like this. How did your interview go?"

"Fine." She hissed, wiping both her cheeks. Whatever was left of her mascara came off as a faint shadow on her fingers.

"I know you don't think much of my detective skills but by the looks of yer I'd wager that answer wasn't entirely truthful."

"What – and you're going to interview me again?" Her tone was sharper than normal. Uncharacteristic and Hardy was sorry that he'd overstepped his mark as soon as the words left his lips. There was no way for him to take them back. "Did _he_ send you in 'ere after me?"

"Miller that's not-" He deflated. "I only came to see if you were all right."

Miller had no idea how he managed to transform himself into the saddest lost puppy but it was impossible to rage at him while he was leaning on the edge of the bench, tail between his legs and eyes on the floor. She took out her frustration on the paper towel dispenser – tearing off a strip. Miller blew her nose and wiped her cheeks properly, finally chasing the tears off. "I gotta be, don't I?" She finally replied to his question, more gently this time. "I've got two children to look after. What would they do if I pack in? End up raised by wolves?"

"Those rumours will start up again," he said, straightening up as she sobered up. "After our official statements are set into the record."

"And you're helping them, being in here..."

"Well I have to be in 'ere don' I? You're in here."

Miller shot him a complex glare. While somewhere in her stone heart she appreciated the gesture it also wasn't very helpful considering the circumstance. Then again, that's what Hardy was like. A conundrum that she hadn't made any headway with. "Oh god..." she settled on, sighing as she pushed by him.

"I know..." said Hardy, a while later, when Rhodes stuck his head in through the office door. It was nearly six and the rest of the office were on their way out.

"It really does have to be now," Rhodes insisted, "although I know you're busy."

"Where are you staying, while you're here?" Hardy asked, curiosity getting the better of him. "I've been where you are now. Hovering inside the town on a case."

"And where did you settle on?"

"Same as everybody else, Trader's Hotel."

Rhodes cracked into a grin. "Exactly. You ready?"

"Ay. Let's get this over with then."

* * *

Miller watched DI Hardy led away into the interview room. She prodded the evidence bag on her desk. The shattered remains of the coloured lights inside were covered in blood – all of it dried. Forensics returned with the expected confirmation that it belonged to the victim. Only the one match. They didn't get lucky.

It was odd, she saw those lights nearly every day, lighting up the sky behind Hardy's shack. She often meditated on their beauty. Friendly, coloured stars hovering close to the Earth. Now she found herself wondering if she'd ever be able to see them without those dark stains. These monsters – they ruined the world. If it was the last thing she ever did, Miller was going to find this one and watch the cell door close on him.


	3. VERSIONS OF THE TRUTH

The only sound inside the interview room was that of the tape clicking over. Hardy stared at it, watching the discs go round and round. Their dry crackle filled his mind, adding a tangible static to the air. He wondered how many people had sat in this chair, transfixed by that dreary box, watching time tick along. Everywhere he went, the modern world was creeping in. Not here. Only the 1970's might marvel at the mournful block howling into the abyss – listening to fragments of truth.

"It was not my intention to keep you," Rhodes apologised, entering the room. He closed the door quietly and sat down with a pile of files and a red notebook. The smell of stale coffee followed him.

Hardy was draped over his chair – not intentionally – it was simply a reality of his long limbs that refused to fold up with any elegance.

Once the formalities of the interview were dispatched with, Rhodes shuffled his chair closer, trying to get a measure of the detective opposite. It was difficult. He'd followed DI Hardy through the Latimer murder and Sandbrook before that, piecing together his narrative via third parties. Those stories did not knit perfectly with the Chief's account – or his own observations which suggested the real DI Hardy lay somewhere in between the realities.

"Can you detail your movements, please?"

DI Hardy forced one of his eyebrows into a lopsided arch. "I was in my shack – well, small house I guess you'd call it but I think it's a shack," not that he was in any way sensitive about that, "going over the details of the Trish Winterman rape. I've got an evidence wall set up and DS Miller often comes 'round to throw a few theories in after work. On the night in question we were both at that board until two. I remember because I checked the time shortly after with my daughter, who was also in the shack. DS Miller headed off around then and I helped my daughter find her bed."

"I'm – sorry?"

"Oh – we're moving at the moment and the bed ended up covered in boxes. Sort of _vanished_ into a nightmare of cardboard. That took about half an hour to sort out and then we turned in ourselves. Stayed there until around six when I headed in to work as usual." Hardy kept looking toward the pile of untouched folders beside Rhodes. He didn't know why but the paperwork bothered him. What was the point of bringing it in if it was only going to sit there?

"And the contact you had with Joe Miller?"

"I'm not certain it passes as 'contact' but it was a day or so after the trial ended. I saw him walking out of the café near the Trader's with a coffee. That's the last I heard of Joe Miller."

"You didn't, at any time, go looking for him?"

"No. Wouldn't even know where to start. Joe Miller's the kind of guy who blends into the scenery."

"Did it strike you as strange that Joe Miller vanished from Broadchurch so soon after the trial when he had two young children in the village?"

' _It's been taken care of.'_ Miller's words crept back to him. He had never asked her what that meant before because he didn't want to know. That, in itself, was an admission. Of _what_ he wasn't sure. Something had gone on behind closed doors in Broadchurch that day. "Not really," Hardy replied. "In a small town, it's nearly impossible to make a life after a thing like that."

Rhodes left that alone for the moment. "And there was no contact of any kind?"

Hardy would rather saw his left leg off than waste any more time on that murdering shit. God, he was turning into DS Miller. "No."

"Well, thank you for your time, DI Hardy. I appreciate it." Rhodes wrapped up. There wasn't a lot else that he was allowed to ask so finished the interview for the tape, reached over and flicked it off. Only when the wheels stopped turning did he venture his next question. An unusual chill settled in the room. The silence – overbearing. Rhodes kept it on his tongue for a long time before asking – warring with his better judgement until curiosity got the better of him. "Did Joe Miller kill Danny Latimer?" He whispered. His eyes fixed on Hardy.

"Miller was acquitted at trial."

Rhodes refused to let it lie and repeated his question. "You are not speaking in official capacity as the case's detective. I only want your opinion, as a colleague."

Hardy stared right back – a glacier meeting the sea. "Yes… and _everyone_ knows it."

* * *

Freed from the interview room, Hardy was surprised to find that Miller had left without him. He was startled by her absence before he remembered that the father of her children had been found murdered this morning and that, in light of this inconvenience, she probably had commitments at home to deal with. Speaking of, he had a daughter stashed away somewhere he should be checking on.

Suffering an unusually deep sigh, Hardy gathered up the fresh set of files placed on his desk by minions while he was in the meeting, slipped them into his bag and hoisted the whole lot over his shoulder. He drew the blinds and ran his hand along the length of the office wall until his fingers found the light switch.

The walk home was crowded by the reopening of the fair. There was nothing but the smallest glimpse of police line around one tent to mark the scene of the rape. Oblivious, the rest of the field was full of screaming children, fumbling teenagers and parents crowded in the shadows, sneaking a drink while their offspring played. Hardy ducked under a string of coloured lights as he took the well-worn shortcut to his shack. The light was on and his daughter sat connected to her computer by several cables. Eventually they were going to give birth to children, pre-attached, of that he was sure.

Hardy dumped the files by the board and sank to the floor, propping himself up against the boxes. It wasn't the same without Miller there, snapping at him about his illegible writing or eating all his toast. Actually, now he thought about it, Miller was always the one who made the toast in the first place. Even one of her jumpers was still on the floor next to him from their meeting last week. He picked it up and started folding it carefully.

"Dad?"

"Yes sweetie?" He let his head fall back even further so that he could see his daughter, computer in hand, frowning down at him.

"Do you know anything about algebra?"

He nearly choked on his amusement.

* * *

The Trader's Hotel was not the most salubrious haunt Rhodes had set up in while running a case but the host was friendly enough and the rooms were free of vermin. That already put it streets ahead of his own house. Living in the country came with its own woes – unwelcome wildlife being one of them.

"Investigating the night life?" Becca Fisher craned her head around the bar. There were only a couple of customers leaning in their chairs, pint in hand. They'd been there so long Rhodes couldn't decide if they were part of the furniture or painted on. How the hotel survived day to day was a financial miracle. Maybe that's what Broadchurch was at heart – a slight of hand.

"Not me, luv." Rhodes replied. "Going for a walk, is all."

"Rain's stopped. You might be lucky." Becca ducked out from the bar, swiped something from the wall and re-appeared beside him brandishing an umbrella. "Take this. You never know."

It was an appalling shade of magenta but he took it with a thankful nod. "Kind."

"Well, you're the first new face I've seen in a while. Can't have you dying on me like the last one nearly did."

Rhodes was left to wonder if that unfortunate soul was DI Hardy.

It wasn't simply the fresh air or space that Rhodes was after – he wanted to familiarise himself with the lay of the land. He started by walking to the line of restored fishing shacks behind the fairground. He paused, smiling at the field full of life. One of the rides spun above him in a blur of colour and noise. The smell of butter-popcorn and chips assaulted him until his stomach groaned and he gave in, buying a small packet which he carried the rest of the way.

The shacks were, as DI Hardy explained, unreasonably small. They were lined up, perched right on the water's edge with barely two foot of stone wall keeping the ocean at bay. Each one was a different colour, dressed with nautical paraphernalia. The longer he looked, the more the idea of them grew on him.

He could clearly see the route DS Miller had taken.

There was only one track that led straight to the field before casually meandering toward the precipice where a single, empty bench watched over the water. Rhodes walked it, keeping an eye on the time. From the top the only the black waves and police lines taped to the grass were visible.

He approached the edge of the cliff but had to stray into the unstable stand for any hope of seeing the beach. Not wanting to end up as an unexpected headline in the Broadchurch Local, Rhodes retreated.

Over to his left, slightly ahead, was a car park. He'd thought to search for Joe Miller's car but with the fair alive and well, it was packed. Tree in a bloody forest. Instead, Rhodes finished his walk at DS Miller's house and lingered on the road outside for a few minutes. He flipped open his notebook, scratched a few things down and then headed back to the Trader's.

* * *

Miller carefully sat on the edge of Fred's bed. Her little boy was still so tiny but he'd reached the limit of his cot a while ago. She watched him sleep for a long time, brushing his soft hair off his forehead every now and then. _At least Joe didn't ruin you_ , she thought, tugging the covers up. Fred had a real chance to be free from his father's memory whereas Tom? Miller was terrified that Tom would suffer for the rest of his life.

Her eldest was a quiet boy but he missed Danny. He never said anything but the phone she'd confiscated earlier had a photo of them all playing soccer as the lock screen. That was the thing about Tom, he was subtle with his emotions but a deep thinker. _Like Joe._

Finally she entered the kitchen, pulled out the milk, sniffed it and made herself a cup of tea and slice of toast. That was all she could be bothered with.

"Are you all right?" Her father asked, appearing at the door wrapped in his dressing gown.

"That answer is becoming more and more relative these days." Miller took a bite of her toast. "The new DI has his kid gloves on," she continued. "I think he's treading carefully until he gets the lay of things. In the meantime I'm doing my best not to develop a violent aversion to his presence. I did that once before with a new DI and look where that led me."

 _Yes, look where that led you_ , her father was thinking. He hadn't worked out what was 'up' with those two but there was definitely _something_ in the air. Working together was one thing, solving a murder, off the books – outside the department, went beyond mere colleagues. "I ah – was wondering..." he began, moving into the room, "...about Tom's phone. What, with his father dying and all, I thought maybe we could give it back to him in case his friends want to talk?"

"What? _No_. Absolutely not." She snapped. "If anything, it's probably better this way. You know what those kids are like. Pack of vultures. Nasty little… Besides, his father dying does not excuse what he did. I said it once, I'll say it again. I will not let Tom turn into his father's son. Now, that's the end of it. _Tom_?" Miller hadn't seen her son lingering in the shadows. By the look on his face, he'd heard everything. Instantly, her chest tightened.

"Came down to see if there was somethin' ter eat," Tom muttered, hurt by his mother's words. Everyone expected him to turn into his father – an inevitable conclusion written in his blood. There were days when he couldn't stand it. Days that he wanted to stand on the edge of the cliffs...

"Why don't I make you something?" Miller offered, trying to be warmer toward her son. "We've got pasta if you like – or I'm sure there are sausages in the freezer."

Tom turned and vanished into his room without a word.

"Christ..." Miller set her half-eaten toast down. Nothing she did made any difference. Parenting – it was a bloody nightmare. "I'm still not giving the phone back," she added, catching onto her father's look. "I'm _not_."

"I was never this harsh on you, Ellie," her father added, sitting himself down on the couch.

"Yeah," she agreed, "and look what happened."

* * *

The evening passed.

Hardy covered his personal evidence board with a piece of cardboard torn from one of the boxes then drowned it in illegible scrawls while his daughter watched on.

Tom lay in his bed with a set of headphones blaring _Portishead_ ballads _._

Miller sifted through the image gallery on her phone with her thumb hovering over the 'delete' button whenever Joe's face appeared.

Crowds trailed away from the fair as a sea fog gathered near the shore, clouding the surface of the water from view leaving the returning fishing vessels as watery lights in the dark.

Beth sent her estranged husband a txt then fell asleep on the couch waiting for a reply that never came.

* * *

"Mornin'." Hardy chirped, as Miller roamed into his office. Neither of them nursed their usual coffee because they hadn't met last night to agree on who'd buy it. The realisation gave Miller pause as she dropped her bag on his couch. How had they become this dependent on each other for routine? "You okay?" He added, when Miller stared at him for longer than usual.

"I'm going to make tea," she huffed, then disappeared for a while. She returned empty handed, having drunk the whole thing in the kitchen after being cornered by that irritating young DC. "Did you get anywhere with the case?"

"No – I sat a maths paper last night." Hardy replied. "Daisy had a thing. What?"

"Sorry sir, it's just you – maths..." Miller was forced to raise the white flag when he threatened to give her a lecture in matrices. "You can come 'round any time you like and help with Tom."

"One child is enough. Two is madness."

"Well, you've got a girl so that counts for two." They both managed their first smile of the day. Miller sat. "I keep thinking," she added, her mind wandering, "walking home that night was a mistake. If I were a DI I'd take a second look at me. Hell, a third and a fourth look."

"Miller?"

"Yes sir?"

"Think about something else."

"Yes sir..." The 'something else' was the file on their new victim. "Rosamond Williams," she said, reading aloud. "Nineteen – working a bit of part time down at the fair on the ticket station in between full time work at her parent's business." Miller shook her head. "Have they told us when we can see her?"

"We're about to head there now. The hospital is releasing her and she has requested to do her initial interview at the scene."

"Unusual."

"Trauma is unpredictable. I'd wager Ms Williams is driven by rage and a healthy dose of vengeance."

Miller held his gaze for a moment. She remembered _his_ rage and how it drove him beyond death and dragged her along with him. Neither of them had stepped back from that place, not entirely. They craved the furnace. The chase. When a case closed they were left with still waters.

* * *

"Beth – you're up early." Reverend Paul Coates stepped out of his modest church into the cool morning draped in an orange scarf. A layer of mist washed up against the stone, weaving around the grave stones and turning the bank of trees at the back into an even hue.

Beth panted, shifting back and forward as she settled down from her run. Her her hair was tied tightly in place but the dark strands were already starting to break free. "I was wondering if you'd heard." His puzzled look answered for him. "Joe Miller – he's _dead_."

Paul reached for the wooden door frame immediately, not sure how to process that information. "How?"

"You really don't know, do you? The body on the beach yesterday. That was _Joe_. Someone pushed him off the cliffs."

"My _God_..." They stood together in silence for a while until he asked, "Are you all right?"

"Good -yeah." And she sounded it. "I tried to tell myself that I didn't care that he was out there – living a life – but..."

"Of course you care," Paul finished gently. "You're human, Beth and you are allowed to have emotions."

"Even unpopular ones?" Her lips found a slight smile.

"Not as unpopular as you think," he assured her.

"Is it wrong, though, to wish someone dead? Because I did. I wished that he were dead every night. I wanted him to suffer." Her thoughts ran through darker waters than that and so did Paul's.

"Are you asking me as a Reverend or-"

Beth reached across instead and laid her hand on his arm. He didn't need to answer her in words. It helped to know that there were other people in the town who felt as she did.

It was a gentle moment, broken by Paul's uncomfortable question. "Have you heard from Mark?"

* * *

Hardy tossed the newspaper into Miller's lap as she settled in the driver's seat. She unfolded the awkward thing and laid it over the steering wheel.

' _Death of a Murderer – Danny Latimer's killer found dead beneath Broadchurch's cliffs'_

"And – a picture of a seagull?" Miller folded it back up and flung it at Hardy, hitting him in the face.

"Yer knew it was coming." He said, folding the paper carefully before stashing it in her glove box to read later.

"An' don't go using my car as your storage area either," she snapped, watching him. "Everything in there is yours. I haven't got room for my sunglasses!"

"Miller when – in the entire stretch of our acquaintance – have you _ever_ worn sunglasses?"

"Well _I might_ if there was room for them in my bloody glove box."

"You were prejudiced against your sunglasses before meeting me." Hardy got the feeling they weren't really arguing about sunglasses. "You should have seen what the Mail came up with this morning. _'Murder on the Menu'_."

"That's – tasteless..."

"And the blogs – supposedly the future of our news: _'A Small Town's Revenge'_ -"

"-Christ's sake who are these people-"

"-' _Danny Latimer's Accused Killer Thrown From Cliffs'_ -"

"-why are you-"

"-' _Acquitted Latimer Killer Receives Final Judgement'._ "

"Please stop – I don't need to hear this."

"And the worst. _'Who Killed Joe Miller?'_ "

"That's not even an article," Miller glanced in Hardy's direction. He looked as serious as she felt. "It's the title of Rhodes' investigation and we're the front page."

"He can't seriously think we killed Joe… We didn't even know that he was in town."

"Maybe not you but certainly me. Innocent as we may be, we've no way of proving it. If there's anything I've learned through all of this shit it's that the truth is meaningless unless you can shine a light on it. You're all right, sir, you were with your daughter all night. I was alone. At the scene of the murder. When this comes back to my desk..."

Hardy looked at her gravely. He wasn't going to let that unspoken threat happen to his DS. "That's not how this story ends."

Miller reached to turn the keys. Hesitated.

"Miller?"

"Why _was_ Joe in town?" She frowned. "It's been nearly a year since he left and then one day, out of the blue, pops back in to hang around the cliffs so someone can push him off? Doesn't make sense, does it?"

"Are you certain he's never come back to Broadchurch before?"

Her skin crawled. "God, I hope he hasn't. Even the thought of him creeping around..."

Hardy felt the question rising in him. What did they say to Joe that made him leave town that day and never return? Did they threaten him? Did someone make good on that threat when they caught him? He couldn't find the words to ask so he snapped at her instead. "Hurry up and drive will yer, Miller."

"You're like _Janus_ , you are."

Their trip was endured in silence except for the loud rubber squeak of her windscreen wipers and occasional _click_ of the blinkers. The hospital was a grim spectre, cobbled together in the fifties now rancid with decay. No amount of careful pine plantings along the front could hide the building's dismay.

Rosamond Williams waited for them in the reception area. Aside from the bandage wrapped around her head to protect the stitches, she looked surprisingly well. Everything about her was average except for her green eyes. As they approached, Rosamond stood and offered her hand.

Hardy was taken off guard by the gesture and fell into a reflex reaction, shaking it. "I am DI Hardy, this is DS Miller. We are here to pick you up."

"Before we leave I wanted to check, are you certain you wish to do this?" Miller asked.

Rosamond nodded firmly. "I may not have been able to defend myself that night but I can certainly fight now."

* * *

" _She's angry,"_ Hardy whispered, in Miller's ear as they exited the car at the fairground. _"Anger is good. I can work with anger."_

"Please try to act a little less pleased while we do this," she retaliated, stepping away from his warm breath. There were times when she found herself consciously enforcing barriers between them. How they came to be overstepped in the first place was a complete mystery to her.

"Do you mind if I record you using this?" Hardy asked, when they were assembled on the lawn. He held up the small recorder her for Rosamond to see.

"I want you to," she insisted.

 _Click._ DI Hardy read the introduction to the tape and then nodded to Rosamond. "In your own time. Lead us through what happened to you."

Rosamond started at the entrance to the fair. "I arrived when it was light. A little early because the bus from Slockville only comes every couple of hours. It pulls up there-" she turned slightly and pointed to a small bus stop by the side of the road, "-and I walk diagonally across that first patch of grass. There's always a group of us coming in together. The employees here I recognise. The patrons change day to day."

"And what time was this?"

"Nearly five." Rosamond began retracing her steps, heading toward the tent at the entrance. Towering over the others, it sported thick green stripes and strands of tinsel that shed all over the grass. "I usually work here," she explained, "at the ticket desk along with Rosalyn. I know – Mr Quaker calls us his 'Two Roses'."

"And who is Mr Quaker?"

"He manages the fair. He'll be here somewhere. He's always here."

"Was it a busy night?"

She nodded. "Oh yes. One of the best of the season. The weather was warm and we had to print extra tickets half way through the night. I think there were a few children's parties as well which helped sales. It was wall to wall people in here for most of the night."

"If you work front of house, how did you come to be near the tent at the back?"

"My shift ended." For the first time, Rosamond's voice dropped. She retreated, ever so slightly, into herself. "As I said, the buses don't come very often so I had some time spare. The food's free for staff and I walked through the fair where I picked up a packet of hot chips. You know what it's like after dealing with people all day, I wanted a moment away from the crowds. There's only so long you can deal with screaming children until the headache sets in. I had a shocker. Anyway, the circus performers had finished for the night so I knew their props tent would be quiet. I took my chips and walked around the back of it. That's when – that's when _it_ happened."

First, Rosamond walked them through the fair, all the way to the tent. They were not allowed to touch anything so she stood near a safety rail. "There – I leaned against that while I finished my chips. I was there for a while. Fifteen minutes or so. Then I went to that bin," she pointed to the bin which was a lot further out in the shadows, well beyond the glow of the fair at night, "then walked back toward the tent. I was nearly there when something hit me from behind."

"Did you see anyone?" Miller asked.

"No. I was looking at the tent. I only felt the blow for a moment then everything went dark. I remember all the sound being sucked out of the world. Then I was falling. I reached out. That's all." She subconsciously lifted her hand toward her head but it was wrapped in many layers of bandages.

"You were hit very hard," Miller explained gently.

"I don't think I was out for long. I remember this feeling – have you ever dreamed of drowning?"

Neither of them replied but Hardy's jaw tightened.

"I do. All the time. It was exactly like my nightmares. The water pressing down from everywhere but you can't scream. You try – over and over – but there's no sound in the world. There was this, dread… Then I woke up and there was something around my throat – like wire or string. He was choking me. I struggled."

"Were you face down or-"

"On my back – ah, here..." Rosamond took them to the spot near where the shattered lights were found. "Then I kicked him. It must have been hard because I heard a groan. He pulled back and I managed to roll over and crawl a few more steps before he jumped on my back and grabbed hold of the wire again. It was so tight I thought it was going to cut straight through my throat. He reached around from behind and shoved something in my mouth. I spat it out – then I bit him."

"Hard enough to leave a mark?" Hardy asked. If so they might have something.

"I think so. I fought," she insisted, turning to both detectives. "I want you to know that I gave that shit hell but he hit me again and I felt myself falling into the darkness. The last thing I remember was laying on the ground, staring at the coloured glass from one of the lights with blood running down my face into the grass. I woke up in hospital and they told me the rest."

Her parents came to collect Rosamond from the fair. Hardy and Miller watched from a distance as they embraced then led her away to the car park. Hardy, in particular, seemed numbed by the experience.

"My daughter is nearly that age," he offered. "I brought her to Broadchurch so that she could be safer. Was that the wrong thing to do?" He was asking himself as much as Miller.

"Men prey on women in every village in the world. It's not all men," she added, "but it's enough that women are forever looking over their shoulder."

"What about you?"

"Do I look over my shoulder at night? Carry my keys in between my knuckles? Hold my phone when I'm taking a cab after a party? Assess every man approaching me on the street after dark?"

Hardy was – shocked. Miller reached out and gently brushed Hardy's elbow with her hand for a moment. "Come on, sir."

Miller walked them back to the street where she insisted on ducking into a shop for a couple of coffees. Hardy sniffed his with suspicion.

"If I'd wanted to poison you, I'd have done it a long time ago," Miller winked, forcing Hardy to take a sip.

"Rhodes is right."

"Oh, that's a change of tune."

"About the case being similar but there's something about it, Miller. Trish Winterman's attack went off smoothly. It had all the hallmarks of an experienced predator. This one seems..."

"A copycat?"

"God, I hope not. When will you start going through that security footage?"

"Soon as we get back, sir."

* * *

The empty dial tone dragged on until Rhodes hung up the phone with a sigh. That was the fourth time this morning he'd called Mark Latimer.

"Sir, sorry to interrupt," one of the constables entered after a brief knock, "but they've found Joe Miller's phone on the beach nearby. He must have been holding it when he fell and dropped it on the way down. It's been out there in all the rain but it's not damage. Tech are drying it out now. They say by tomorrow they can turn it on."

"That's excellent, thank you. Any luck finding his car?"

"There's a white van listed under his name. We have uniforms out looking for it now. Can't be far away. Also, Joe's employer has sent through those details you requested. Home address, etcetera. Did you want to stop by his flat and have a look for yourself?"

He nodded. "I'll take the bus."

* * *

It was smaller than Rhodes had imagined – sadder…

He asked the uniforms to wait outside while he entered Joe Miller's ground floor flat. Inside was a hollow shell, like the individual that inhabited it. Barely two rooms with cracked walls and a pathetic scattering of furniture.

Rhodes was drawn to a single shelf beneath the only window where a collection of personal items had been lined up.

A much younger DS Miller smiled out from one of the photos. He felt as though he were intruding on his DS so he moved onto the three separate photos of Miller's boys beside. It was the final photo, set in a wooden frame, that made Rhodes take a step back in astonishment. Danny Latimer. Clearly a framed cut out from the newspaper, it held pride of place.

 _Yes._

Rhodes kept going back to Hardy's confession.

 _Yes, Joe had killed that boy._

Rhodes touched the glass covering Danny's smiling face.

He'd listened to all the courtroom tapes. Joe Miller's testimony of innocence. It counted for _nothing_ in the face of this image. This was the truth, sitting in the depths of Miller's house where he thought no one would find it.


	4. THE LATIMERS

"Miller." Hardy waited for her to drag her attention away from his impromptu evidence board. Eventually she turned, post-it note in hand. "Why do you keep coming back here?"

There was a prolonged period of confusion as Miller looked between the board and her boss then back again. It was clear that she hadn't _quite_ caught his meaning when she replied, "You daft? To finish solving the Winterman case. Obviously." Miller added with a flourish, pinning the post-it into a spare corner.

This time, Hardy's daughter was out with friends, celebrating leaving him and Miller alone in the shack. He really _did_ have to move. There wasn't an inch to spare and no furniture left to speak of. Let alone food. Miller'd already dragged him over the coals about that upon her arrival which is what led to the wreak of fish and chips clinging to the air. Hardy had picked at his. Miller devoured hers.

"No, I mean – why do we do this _here_?" He tried again.

"Because they kick us out of the office so they can clean it. Gawd, what is wrong with you tonight? Are you having a second mid-life crisis because I don't think we have time for that."

Hardy didn't try a third time. "Fine, oh – don't forget ter put that licence plate log up as well."

"The one that came in from the birthday party? Yeah. Got it. Bit heavy. I'm going to need another pin. Where the heck are they? Did you pack them? You did. Typical man."

He wasn't sure if he was in trouble after that rant so he wisely kept quiet, flipping open one of the evidence folders he hadn't read yet while Miller tore the masking tape off one of his boxes. "Miller!" He growled, but she paid him no attention.

"There they are." She was rambling to herself as she set about attaching the long list of plates. When Miller was done, she left the container of pins on another box beside the board. "Are you ever actually going to move? I'm starting to think this other house of yours is a fictional construct wrapped in a delusion."

"Of course I have a house," he muttered back. "It's finding the _time_ , Miller."

"I can help you move if you like. I've got a teenage son that could use a bit of good ol' fashioned hard work. No, honestly. This weekend. If there's nothing else planned. Weather's going to be all right. I checked an' all. That's settled then, sir."

All this before Hardy was able to get a word in. It was pointless protesting, she'd disappeared to make tea.

* * *

Saturday was exactly as Miller had promised – blue skies over Broadchurch. The cliffs were back to their warm ochre and the sea lapping along the edge on the high tide was a true ultramarine. He emerged into the day, carrying a box.

"Over there," Miller greeted him, pointing to the small white truck.

Miller was definitely in charge of the move. Hardy was at a loss as to where half these people who were now handling his possessions had come from. They were all packing them carefully into the truck while Tom and Nige hoisted his sofa on board. He gave them a nod as he passed by.

"Honestly, you didn't have to do this," Hardy cornered Miller inside the shack.

"No but I did it anyway," she replied. "The sooner you're in the new house, the sooner I get to sit on a bloody chair for a change. I'm not spending another week sitting on your floor, sir."

Good point. All Hardy could do was nod.

* * *

His daughter was at the new house, co-ordinating the delivery. Hardy had to pause and admire for a moment how very like her mother she looked, bossing everyone about. She was born to it.

By three o'clock, it was only him, Miller and Daisy left – sprawled on the floor looking a mess with bits of tape stuck to them. A Stanley knife lay abandoned beside and half the mud in the universe was trampled over sheets in the foyer.

"I'm going out," Daisy announced, dragging herself off the carpet. "Everyone's meeting at the beach."

"Not too late," Hardy insisted. "I want you back before it gets dark. I'll come and pick you up if you need me to."

"Please dad, _don't do that_." She insisted.

"You'd destroy her reputation forever," Miller teased him, after Daisy had left. They were both laying on the floor, staring up at his new ceiling.

"So, what do you think?"

"It's very – very _white_."

His eyes wandered around the room. "You're not wrong but then, we are comparing it to a shack where every surface was a different colour. I'll get – pictures, or something."

"True. Mind you, I'll miss it. A bit."

"You were the one who moved me out of it."

"Hardly. Well – a bit..."

They both smiled. Hardy rolled his head to the side, looking at her. "I don't suppose I can paint it..."

"Doubt it."

And that was the moment Miller realised that she and Hardy were simply laying on his floor, looking nowhere but at each other. She wasn't sure how long they held the gaze until Hardy turned his nose up at the idea of painting and rolled off to the side. Miller remained a moment longer. What _were_ they doing? It certainly wasn't an office affair and yet it wasn't exactly a friendship either. They were becoming part of each other's lives.

"I've uh – got to go pick up Fred," Miller made her excuse, standing up. Her hair was all off to the side from laying down and far too long. "My father wants to go down to the pub."

Hardy started with a nod but then - "You could bring him here," he offered – or requested… "While we go through the case. Wouldn't be the first time. He's grown up listening to us amble on about cases."

"Fred walks around now. We can't just leave him in the pram and hope for the best."

"I know."

"Guess I could."

"You're only down the street."

"Forgot about that." Miller admitted. "Well I'll – I'll be back."

"I'll – make tea."

* * *

"Are you sure that's the small one?" Hardy asked, tea mugs in hand, as Miller re-appeared at his door.

This time he was definitely joking in his own dry, Scottish way. "Shut up, sir."

Fred was clinging on as she entered, carrying a backpack on the other should full of things to keep him entertained. Fred beamed the moment he laid eyes on Hardy, reaching out his arms. Hardy – lofted an eyebrow and vanished into the living room. Yes. He had one of those now. More rooms than he knew what to do with.

"Bring it in here."

"Pay _no_ attention to that man," Miller snuggled her little boy. "He's got a heart of gold. Well… some kind of metal."

* * *

"Gotcha..." Rhodes muttered under his breath.

As the afternoon rolled on, he'd headed out to the Broadchurch cliffs – more specifically the car park at the top following a tip off from one of the local cafes. Solid tip, as it happened. Mark Latimer's truck was parked at the edge with a view of the water. Rhodes strolled up and knocked on the side but there was no one in. Never mind. It was such a beautiful time of day that he sat himself down on the grass nearby, sipped his coffee and perused the local paper. Nearly half of it was a re-hash of the original Danny Latimer case. Every time the story went to print, corners of it had been embellished with a fresh flourish of barely veiled lies. The press built pyramids with the truth and, impressive though they may look, none of it helped Rhodes inch closer to Joe Miller's killer.

Mark Latimer arrived at his van as the last of dusk crept away. Rhodes stood and intercepted before he could reach the van. "Mark Latimer?" he asked.

"Who's asking?" Mark replied, suspiciously. He looked rough as shit, unshaven and clearly back from the public showers. The smell of salt had not completely washed off nor had the faint tone of whisky.

"DI Rhodes," he replied, extending his hand in a friendly manner. It was another long moment before Mark tucked his towel under his arm and shook the DI's hand.

"Sorry it's just – there are a lot of reporters about at the moment, you know? All trying to get a look in."

"I understand. Must be hard an' all."

"I've had my fill of them over the years." There were times when he'd invited the reporters to tell Danny's story but now he saw them for what they were, creatures feeding off misery to make a few quid. He was the one who suffered – the one who had to walk by pictures of his dead son every other day smiling out from news stands. _Move on_ everyone said. How was he meant to do that with Danny's ghost at every turn?

"Is there somewhere we can sit or?" Rhodes tried not to linger too long on the van but he had his doubts about there being enough room for them to speak in private inside its white shell.

"Say whatever you came to say," Mark insisted. "I know about Joe. Not really a surprise, is it? Can't say I'm sorry. Doubt anyone's sorry."

"We'll take a walk, then?" Rhodes offered, leading Mark over the grass. "It had been my intention to inform you of Joe Miller's death myself before you read it in the news but you've not been answering my calls."

"Like I said – lot of press… I thought you were one of them. I don't take calls from unknown numbers these days."

"Must make business tough."

"What little of it there is." Mark kicked a tuft of grass as they walked. "Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, Joe Miller's death?"

"A little bit more than that." Rhodes waited until they reached the bench overlooking the water and then sat down on it. Eventually Mark did the same. "Miller did not jump from the top of the cliffs – he was pushed. Murdered. As a matter of formality, I have been brought up to investigate the case."

"Not Ellie, then?" Mark had softened to Ellie Miller considerably in the year after Joe's release. He saw Ellie for what she truly was – another one of Joe's victims. "I guess not," Mark answered his own question, "being his ex-wife an' all."

"Both DI Hardy and DS Miller are excused from the murder investigation," Rhodes explained, "due to their involvement in the Danny Latimer case. I am perfectly aware that I am a stranger in this small community but I assure you, I am here to resolve this situation as quickly and painlessly as possible." All Mark did in reply was nod. He was a man beyond caring at this stage – as though the world was turning without him. "I am sorry to have to do this to you but it is procedure. We can do it here or down the station if you prefer."

"You want a statement from me, I guess."

"That is correct, sir."

"Go on with it, then."

Rhodes extracted his notepad from his pocket. "Where we you on the night Joe Miller was murdered?"

Mark Latimer shrugged, staring at the ocean rather than the detective. "Here, I think. I'm here every night of late."

"Do you mean, here in the car park with your van?"

"Yeah. Doesn't move much – a few spaces maybe but it's the best spot away from the noise of the fair, you know? That thing goes on most of the night these days."

"What time did you arrive in the car park?"

"I did a job up Quaker's farm and got in about six. Walked down to the shops o'er there and bought some fish and chips. Showered – came back around eight but I can't be exact. I didn't look at my watch or anything. After that, stayed in my van reading and eventually went to sleep."

"I can't help but notice," Rhodes said carefully, "that the car park has a reasonable view of this bench."

Mark looked over his shoulder and agreed. It was a clear line of sight between the two.

"Joe Miller was pushed from the edge of the cliffs just over there," Rhodes pointed to the ground a short way in front and slightly to their right. "Did you see anyone standing up here?"

"To be honest with you mate, I wasn't looking," said Mark. "There's not exactly windows on the van. Once you're in there you can't see much of anything."

 _Fair enough_ , Rhodes thought to himself. There was a stretch of silence where Rhodes scribbled in his notepad. He was diligent with his work almost to the point of mania. Finally, he returned his attention to Mark. "After the trial, Joe Miller left Broadchurch."

"'course he bloody did."

"Did you ever see him inside the town after that day?"

"Definitely not. Miller knew not to come back."

"Do you mind clarifying?"

"Well Ellie made it clear that she didn't want him around the boys – can you blame her?"

No. Rhodes couldn't.

"And nearly everyone in the town saw through his lies," Mark continued. "He wasn't welcome here."

"Your job requires that you travel – often out of town. Have you ever come across Joe Miller anywhere else?"

This time, Mark hesitated before replying as though he were replaying the moment in his mind. "Once. I had a – job on – you know, one of them cargo ships in Liverpool. I saw him. Working security. Ironic." Mark's voice was drowned in bitterness. He always seemed to be on the verge of tears.

"Did you approach Joe Miller or confront him?"

"I stopped and took a good look at him, if that's what you mean."

"But did you speak with him?"

"No."

"Gesture at him or communicate in-"

"I said _no_. I just _looked_ is all. I think I was in shock, actually. I'd come to peace with the idea that I'd never see that man again. Beth she – I don't know – she's able to forget that he exists but I – well, seeing him made it worse. Made it real what happened to Danny all over again. So no, I didn't say a thing. I walked away, got in my van, drove back here and drank enough to put me out of service for a few days."

"Did you tell anyone what happened?"

Mark shook his head. "No."

"Not even your wife?"

"Beth and I haven't spoken in a while. Things are – difficult."

"That is grief," Rhodes softened, putting his notepad away.

"And how long ago was this job in Liverpool?"

"Two weeks ago."

"Mr Latimer, I wanted to say that I am very sorry for your loss. I hope, one day, that you will be able to find a measure of peace." He thanked him for his time and left Mark sitting on the bench, contemplating the coming darkness.

* * *

"That's enough now Miller, you're going to give _me_ a headache let alone what it's doin' ter your sanity."

Miller was pacing backwards and forwards in front of the board, nursing an empty mug that had once held tea. For some reason she refused to let it go – as though it had become some sort of comforter or emotional crutch. Out of the blue she stopped and ripped the photo of Trish Winterman's husband off the board, scrunched it up and tossed it to the side.

"Really that's not very helpful," Hardy complained, prying himself off the couch to pick up the discarded photo. "On what grounds have you ruled him out?"

"He's an idiot," she replied. "Don't scoff at me, I'm serious. He might be a complete creep – spying on his wife like that and as much as I'd like to lock him up for it, she hasn't made a complaint against him. Yet. That said, there's no way he'd be able to plan and execute these attacks. Yes, he has an unhealthy obsession with his wife and if there was only one rape of Trish Winterman I might leave him up there but what about those other girls? We've nothing on him to suggest he was anywhere near those locations. Worse, we can confirm that he was at a teacher's night when the rape in the field happened. The three – possibly four now – cases are related. If he didn't do that one then…"

"Then he's likely not our rapist."

"Exactly."

"Still a bit of a shit though." Hardy tossed the photo in the bin. In the background, Fred started to cry. On instinct, Hardy went to fetch him, picking him up off the floor where he'd been playing with blocks. He carried him in one arm and brought him into the room where Miller was staring at the remaining suspects. Fred quietened down, content to lay against Hardy's chest. He'd been around Fred so long Hardy has almost forgotten that it wasn't his. "You haven't ripped anyone else off while I was gone, have you?"

"No." Miller sighed rather loudly. "I brought the footage from the fair over. Fancy going over it?"

"I'm going to be honest with you, Miller, it's not the most enticing proposal I've ever received."

"Oh – shut up."

Hardy feigned offence. "Don't swear around the small one."

"Fred. Gawd are you ever going to learn their names?"

Hardy was well aware of their names but there were few things that brought him as much pleasure in life as winding Miller up. Her default 'fury' setting was an endless source of entertainment.

* * *

' _Mark, when you get this, call me back. I'm worried about you.'_

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

Beth hung up the phone and swung around, surprised by the knocking at her door. It was coming up to nine o'clock, well beyond visiting hours. Not even her daughter's friends came around at this time.

"Mark!" She exclaimed, opening the door. "You look – terrible..."

"Thanks. May I uh – come in? Just for a moment. Nothing like last time, I swear. I just – I need to talk about something. Please, Beth."

"Yes, we need to talk," she agreed, stepping aside. Mark wandered through the house, brushing his hands over various surfaces as though the memory of Danny lingered on everything. Beth watched him with concern, following him into the kitchen. "Is this about Joe? There's a new DI. He was looking for you earlier. I tried to call. Since when have you stopped taking my calls, Mark? What if it was serious? What if it was about the girls? You're still their father, you know. You can't just go dropping off the face of the map whenever you feel like it."

"I know – I'm sorry."

 _He wasn't really sorry,_ Beth couldn't help thinking, _or he wouldn't keep bloody doing it._ "Fine. Whatever."

"I spoke with the detective this evening. He was asking me questions about where I was that night – if I'd seen Joe."

"Yeah, he came 'round here asking me the same thing. Have to expect it, don't you? That filth turned up murdered and we've got more cause to see him dead than anyone – well, except maybe Ellie. What is it?"

"Doesn't that bother you, Beth? That we're being treated like suspects… Hasn't that man done enough damage to this family?" He'd hidden his rage from Rhodes but it was definitely there, bubbling away under the surface.

"He seemed quite reasonable about it, actually. God, compared to the questioning we endured after Danny's murder it was nothing. Why – did you lie to him?"

"I _saw_ Joe," he admitted to Beth. "Couple of weeks back in Liverpool."

"Liverpool? What were you doing all the way out there?"

"I told him I was on a job."

"You don't take jobs that far out, Mark."

"Well of course not but he don't know that."

"Oh Mark..." Beth leaned back against the kitchen counter. "Why did you say that? He'll find out. That's his job and then what?" She paused and turned on her husband. "Why _were_ you in Liverpool?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He replied. There was something half-mad in his eyes. Despair had possessed Mark Latimer, sunk its claws in and had no intention of letting him go. "I heard Joe was working on the docks so I went. I just wanted to take a look at him," he added quickly, when Beth started to groan. "That's all. To see him."

"And is that all you did, Mark – look at him?"

"No."

"Christ, Mark. You're such an _idiot_."

"I only spoke to him. I never bloody touched him."

"Listen to me, Mark. You need to go and find that detective and tell him this. Tell him _now_ and say that you're sorry."

"I can't do that. Won't look good, will it? I speak to Joe and next minute he ends up dead."

"Lying about it will look worse and you know it."

"He won't find out."

"He _will_. I'm not lying for you."

"Come on Beth, I haven't got an alibi. I was by myself in the van, wasn't I? Parked right near that cliff. No one sees me from one day to the next. I'm Danny's father. If anyone had a motive to kill him, it's me, isn't it?"

Beth held his gaze for a long time. "Why are you here?" She searched his face.

"Because the monster who murdered our little boy is dead and for the first time I feel like I can breathe. It's not justice like rotting away in a cell for the rest of time but at least he doesn't get to live a life."

"Mark. _Why are you here?_ "

"I wanted to look in your eyes and ask. Was it you?"

Her hands gripped the edge of the bench until her knuckles went white. "I was going to ask you the same question."

* * *

Daisy was late coming back to the new house. She did her best to sneak in, turning the lock without a sound – opening the front door carefully. It was much easier now that the hinges didn't squeak.

"Oh – what the…?"

There was a trail of torn paper across the floor leading to her father's new evidence board which was larger and more unsightly than its predecessor. Barely any of the boxes had been unpacked (not that it came as much of a surprise considering her father's track record) and the only item of furniture in its correct spot was the couch.

The couch… was occupied by her father and his DS – sound asleep – with a laptop balanced on his chest whose battery had died long ago. They were laying together, sharing a pillow. His glasses were completely askew while Miller still gripped a pen lightly in her fingertips.

Naturally, the first thing she did was snap a photo on her phone for leverage.

That was when she noticed the infant happily playing with blocks on the floor beside them.

"Oh perfect..." she whispered, wandering over to the little boy. Fred was grinning madly, holding a coloured block in each hand.

It took Daisy a good ten minutes to think of a safe way of resolving the situation. She phoned her friend across the street and organised to stay at her place for the night then carefully backtracked out of the house leaving everything as it was. Then, hovering outside, she sent a txt to her dad.

 _Don't worry. Staying at friend's house. Night dad._

DI Hardy felt his phone buzz. On instinct, he reached into his pocket and fished it out, only opening his eyes when it was in front of his face. Through bleary eyes he read the txt from his daughter but was too groggy to be properly angry.

 _K._

He put the phone back in his pocket and closed his eyes.

Breathing next to him. Something warm. The strange weight of a laptop on his chest. New house smell. A large rodent making noise nearby.

Hardy opened his eyes again and put his glasses on.

"Miller!" He hissed, mostly in shock.

"Gawd, what?" Miller's eyes snapped open. The world wasn't on fire. They weren't being murdered. It was just her sleeping half on top of her boss with her youngest child on the floor beside. "OH FUCK!"

She startled so hard that Hardy had to grope for the laptop.

* * *

"You're not walking me home!" Miller tried to disentangle herself from Hardy but he was trailing her through the front door, still holding onto her bloody backpack like a baggage boy waiting for a tip.

"Of course I am." He insisted. "It's the middle of the night and you've got-"

"FRED!"

"Fred. Exactly."

And that was it. She couldn't shake him. Things only got worse when she checked her phone as they walked. "Fifteen messages from dad. I feel like a teenager. What happened to yours?"

"Stayed at a friend's house."

"That's your fault for threatening to come and collect her in front of her friends. They get really sensitive about that sort of thing at her age. It's as though they'd prefer parents didn't exist at all – except as a bank and source of food. Speaking of..."

Miller's father was waiting at the front door of the house with the lights on so any hope of sneaking in was dashed. He gave her a proper serve as she climbed the steps, relieving her of Fred (who was happily asleep). When he was done reprimanding his daughter he turned his attention on Hardy and gave him a right talking to about letting Ellie walk the streets so late at night after all that's been going on – murder and rape and god knows what. Hardy hadn't been chastised by someone else's parent since his first girlfriend.

He and Miller was so shocked by the experience that they both sulked off, Miller into the house and Hardy back onto the street, without so much as a 'goodnight'.


	5. MONDAY

Miller picked up two cups of coffee on the way into work but this time they were both for her. Strong flat whites aka enough caffeine to run a Hipster café. She set them on her desk, side by side and contemplated the utter train wreck of her life. Miller remembered the exact moment it had derailed and tossed her sanity into oblivion. Even now, several years on, she felt the ghost of herself lurking in the interview room. Those screams would never fade.

"Mooorning!" Brian chirped happily, oblivious to her suffering as he wandered by. "Oh – that sort of a morning, is it?" He added, noting her twin coffees. "Nothing wrong with that of course. Good to see you're getting out and having a bit of fun."

DS Miller squinted at her beverages – blinked – rubbed her forehead and looked up to Brian with an utterly confused, "What are you on about?" He jabbed his eyebrows upwards in reply. Only then did Miller realise that he'd made a serious error misjudging her weekend activities. "Not much of a detective, are you – Brian?" That was probably too harsh. "I was going over the surveillance tapes from the fair. I think I'm going to have to watch them fifty bloody times before I get a handle on what went on."

"Why DS Miller, that is either an excellent cover story for your weekend or-"

"Don't give me, 'or' Brian."

" _Or_ you should come out with all of us next time."

She wasn't violently opposed to the idea. "You know what, Brian? I think I might take both a raincheck and an umbrella on that one." Which meant that she was considering it. Brian seemed rather satisfied with himself and wandered off, whistling. When he was gone, Miller risked a look in the direction of Hardy's office. The door was closed. Blinds drawn. It was impossible to tell if he was squirreled away in there or not. They hadn't spoken since her father had given them an earful on Saturday night and, in the sober light of day, she was mortified. Gawd, she hoped somewhere under that permanently vexed Scottish exterior there was a sense of humour.

* * *

Rhodes wasn't in the office. He had decided to begin his week kneeling on the grass in front of Danny Latimer's grave. Every day was growing cooler, no more so than the back of the cliffs were the church dug in against the passing fogs. Its weathered stone, stolen from some former structure, seemed to hold back Time itself.

He laid a small collection of wild flowers on the grass and then headed to the church. The Reverend was at the opposing end, setting out Hymn books for a service doomed before it began. There was nothing for Rhodes to knock on to announce his presence so he made a point of clearing his throat. The Reverend nearly dropped one of the books in surprise to see someone other than Beth at his door so early.

"I did not mean to startle you," Rhodes insisted. "I was merely looking for the maintainer of this establishment."

"That would be me," Paul replied, holding the last Hymn book in hand as he wandered up the aisle toward the stranger. "I can guess who you are. The new DI? Small town. Don't worry. I haven't heard anyone say anything particularly terrible about you yet and you don't have a nickname like poor _Shitface_."

"Whom?"

"Doesn't matter..."

"Well, that _is_ comforting." Rhodes took the comment in good humour, introduced himself and then, "May I have a moment of your time?"

"As you can see, I am run off my feet."

There was more than a touch of despair in the Reverend's reply. "Would you prefer outside or-?"

"No, by all means, have a seat." Paul led the DI to one of the pews. "Are you a religious man?"

Rhodes settled himself into the enormous curve of wood. It felt like every item in these places was designed to make you feel smaller. "No but I do appreciate the serenity. I'm a bit partial to solid, dark wood and stone. This is particularly lovely."

"But empty, as you see." Paul lamented, still holding his hymn book. "I run a sermon every morning and evening but usually I end up gardening instead if there's no one about. The few people that come up here during the week prefer to pray in silence inside. I do a lot of gardening..."

"What time do your sermons start?"

"Thinking of coming? Oh..." Paul realised that Rhodes was politely asking to account for his whereabouts. "The evening ones begin at six and finish up just before seven. On – well on _that day_ there were only two of us so we closed at six-thirty."

"And – after that?"

"I was alone for the remainder of the evening. I – I packed up the church and retired to my room, over there." He pointed to the small alcove toward the back of the building. "Where I started preparing for a wedding that was on this weekend past."

"Did you go back outside?"

"Of course – to return to the cottage. It's down the hill a'way. Gosh I'm not sure when. Probably nine. Sorry. I can't say for certain."

"You have a bit of a view to the cliff on that walk. Did you see anyone up there – people hiking or out running. Maybe some stragglers from the fair?"

"No one that I noticed. It was dark and I wasn't really paying much attention if I'm honest with you. There might have been people but if there were, I didn't see them."

"That's okay. It's hard to remember the details of uneventful days if we don't know in advance we'll need to recall them. Something's got to really stand out. That said – a bit of time can bring things back. If you think of anything you can call me any time on this number or check in with the station." Rhodes handed Paul his card. "It's all right if you want to add things later."

"No – I will." Paul took the card and slid it into his robes.

They stood together and there was a moment where it seemed like Rhodes was about to leave but then he added, "Did you know the boy that was killed – Danny Latimer?"

Paul nodded. "Of course. He was a good kid, you know. When he died I spent a lot of time with his family helping them get through their grief. The funeral was hosted here."

Rhodes seriously doubted that the Latimers were anywhere near to being 'through their grief' but the Reverend's intentions appeared genuine. "What about Joe Miller?"

"Of course and yes, I knew him quite well. Ellie and Joe had their boys christened here and I saw them from time to time – more so after Danny's death." Paul had to pause while he sieved through his thoughts. "He was there, you know, Joe Miller – sitting right _there_ -" he pointed to a pew a few rows down, "-while I was leading the village in prayer for Danny. How – how can someone do that? Sit directly behind grieving parents after murdering their child? I try to believe in everybody's humanity but then you meet people..."

"And your notion of the world is turned on its head..." Rhodes finished darkly.

Paul nodded, sensing sorrow wandering deep beneath the detective. He wasn't sure that it was a good idea to go digging for it. "Well, yes, in answer. I knew him reasonably well."

"I've been reading through some of the case notes and there are records of you providing a sort of counselling service to Joe when he was on trial?"

Paul became uncomfortable. "I was trying to make some sense out of what happened. It was a decision that set me on the wrong side of a lot of people for a while. No one wanted to have a bar of Joe and after I was finished with him, neither did I. That man had no sense of humanity or remorse for what he'd done. He was afraid of jail and lied his way out of it – tearing apart families in the process." Paul fumbled with the hymn book. "This profession draws people who want to heal others and – for a while – I believed that I could achieve that with Joe. Sometimes we simply fail."

Rhodes felt that more deeply than the Reverend intended. "I have heard something about Joe being convinced to leave Broadchurch after that trial..."

Paul could tell the detective was fishing. There was no point lying now. "I assisted in his departure. Atonement, call it. I rang in a favour with one of my fellow Reverends in a neighbouring town. He organised a half-way house for Joe so that he could disappear and start a new life, far away from Broadchurch. I have the details of where he was sent in my office. I can forward on to you." Another silence that dragged even longer in the vacuous rafters. "You haven't asked the big question." Paul pointed out.

"I'm sorry?"

"The question you came here to ask. _Did I kill Joe Miller?_ "

It hung in the air between them. "Did you?" He would not normally be so direct but considering it was ventured...

"No. Let me know when you find out who did. I owe them a drink."

Paul watched the detective leave. He took his time about it, nosing around the grounds for nearly half an hour. When he'd finally vanished down the cliff path, Paul sank into his office and eyed his phone. No messages. His attention wandered to the empty bottle of whisky on the table. There was a smear of alcohol left in the bottom from last night's affair. He gripped the bottle by its neck and hurled it into the bin along with others just like it. He'd never meant for this to happen but one drink turned into endless nights now every mouthful was like wading into the sea.

At the bottom of that water he found a face. Always the same eyes starring, lifeless from the dark.

* * *

Hardy _was_ in his office though at this moment Miller thought of it more as a cave. She knocked cautiously before opening the door. It was dark inside with all the blinds drawn and Hardy's laptop providing the sole source of light. He sat in front of it like some kind of zombie from Gen i.

"All right?" She asked, trying to gauge his mood. Miller couldn't help but notice his desk was bare. "You eaten, sir?"

"This footage from the fiftieth birthday party. Bit dark, isn't it? I mean, couldn't tech clear it up any more than this? I can barely make out the cars let alone their plates or any people that might be wandering by. Looks like the bottom of Loch Ness with sodding rain an' mist."

For a moment, Miller worried that he might have spent all of Sunday in his office doing this – ranting to himself. She had long suspected that there was something therapeutic about the process of hissing in a heavy accent. "They've tried but the cameras were cheap. The owners of the house have never had any trouble there. Only put them up for insurance. We're lucky they were turned on."

"Lucky?" He huffed, then sank deeper into his chair. "Any luck with the footage from the fair?"

"Well… I've _re-watched_ ," she ventured carefully, waiting to see if he wanted to raise the topic, "as much as I could over Sunday but to be honest with you sir, there are hundreds of people. I'll need to watch it many more times before I can give you a report on suspicious activity."

"What about the victim?"

"Booked in to give a full written statement this afternoon."

"No I meant, how is she?" Hardy clarified.

"I – didn't ask." Which was uncharacteristic of her and made her feel rightly awful. She decided to risk it, taking up her usual perch on his couch.

"The strong crave sympathy as much as the fragile. Was there something else you were needing?" Hardy asked, barely looking over to her. His eyes were fixed on the footage.

"We've been at this case for a while now so I was wondering – who do you think it is?"

"I wouldn't like to guess yet..."

"No I understand but – in your soul – or your balls – or whatever it is men prefer to refer to when they have to take a gamble. Who do you _feel_ did it?"

This time Hardy leaned forward and tapped on the spacebar, pausing the video. "In my _balls_?" He deliberately took her out of context then felt that little rush of victory at her growl. "My gut doesn't know." Hardy admitted. "Except to say, I think we're dealing with more than one individual."

"You're going with the copy-cat theory for our new victim?"

"At the moment – yes. I've been going over similar case studies and this last rape fits the bill of a copier who has to be in contact with the original rapist. There are too many details that he couldn't have known from the papers alone. If I were a betting man, I'd wager that the two of them committed Trish Winterman's rape together for the first time – that's why it was somewhat of a mess."

"The lone hunter adopts what – a friend? Someone to go hunting with and then that person decides to try their hand at it alone?"

Hardy nodded. "So far, that's what I'm feeling. You?"

"Swaggery Little Shit," she replied.

"We've got nothing on him, Miller."

"Except his attitude."

"If that were enough to put you in the lockup you and I'd be in there already."

"Me? I'm perfectly friendly. Fucking cheery as it comes."

"Have you met _you_?"

"Oh – shut up, sir."

The tension in the room trembled and finally broke. "Your dad has a hell of a streak then..."

Miller's eyes shone. "Don't I know it."

"Though, must say, Miller."

"No sir – don't-"

"Explains a lot about you."

Her head fell back in an agonised sigh. "I'm _nothing_ like my dad."

"Ay, same tone in your voice when you're havin' at one of the staff. Where are you going?"

Miller was already at the door. "To get you a tea in the faint hope that caffeine will improve you as a person."

* * *

"Enjoying the countryside?" Hardy asked, when he caught sight of Rhodes entering the station around lunch time.

"Been up to the church," he replied, lifting his collar in an attempt to cool off. He'd walked the cliff path all the way back to the village and looked worse for it.

"Right..." he nodded his head faintly. "But did you enjoy it?"

"Yeah – beautiful spot. Lovely fresh air. The sunrise in particular – it's majestic, the way the light hits the cliffs..." Rhodes trailed off at Hardy's pained expression. "You – don't like it here?"

"Hate it. Hate the salt. Hate the passing clouds of seagulls that nest on my window. Hate the stink of oil from the chippie downstairs. Hate the very soul of it." There wasn't even a whisper of sarcasm.

Rhodes shifted closer, curious. "Then, if you don't mind me asking, why on Earth do you stay?"

"Same reason you do. Broadchurch is turning into the crime capital." This time there was a smirk – a crack in Hardy's veneer that left Rhodes with an amused eyebrow lofted in contemplation of his colleague.

"Ah – DS Miller?" Rhodes spun around as DI Hardy's partner in crime wove through the office. She stopped like a school child caught skipping class – tea in one hand, biscuit in the other. "Can I borrow you for a moment – in my office?'

...

Miller dipped her biscuit in the tea, devouring the whole thing while she waited for Rhodes to settle behind his desk. He reminded her of a cat that had to have everything _just so_ before they could sit. For Rhodes this involved straightening his pile of files and sliding two pens inexplicably from one side of his desk to the other.

"It's only a quick question really," he began casually. "Though it is official."

"Right-O." A sip of tea. "Well, go on then – spit it out – might as well." The worst part for Miller was the wait. She hated the expectant silence.

"DS Miller, what is your maiden name?"

Whatever question she'd been expecting, it wasn't that. "Barrett."

"Only that, I couldn't help but notice that you still go by your ex-husband's name."

"Not _technically_ my ex..." She was forced to admit. "I know – _I know._ Divorce is more difficult than you think. Listing him as a child murderer is more difficult when he was acquitted then I couldn't find the bugger to sign the papers."

"So you have initiated proceedings?"

"'course I filed." Her reply was so sharp that she ended up sneering at her tea. "There's so much red tape it would have been easier if he were de-" Miller stopped herself mid thought. "Well, anyway. I have to go by, 'Miller' in official duties. No choice."

Rhodes was looking right through her. There was more to it than that, he could tell by the way she was shifting awkwardly in her seat, looking everywhere but at him. "It's not fair though, is it? That he got to take your identity..."

Her eyes dragged up to his face. Softer. "No. It's not. Not just my name either – my children's. Even – even now that he's – and I'm – I don't know how I feel about going back to, 'Barrett'. Bloody hated that name in the first place. Maybe I should just pick a new one. Something I actually like the sound of. Ellie Wilde – no, too many, 'e's'."

Rhodes actually caught himself laughing.

"Was that all then, sir?"

"Yes, that was all."

* * *

"What was tha' about then?" Hardy asked, sidling up to his DS after she'd escaped the meeting. At least he'd found a piece of dry bread to chew on. Anything to stop him gnawing on the staff.

Miller was nursing her half-cup of tea. "Wanted to know why I keep going by, 'Miller'. He thinks I ought to change it and thinking about it, he has a point. Do I really want to keep that shithead's name tagged onto mine like a ghost?"

Hardy – frowned. "I'm not learning another name."

"What – so if I changed my name, you'd go on calling me, 'Miller'?"

"Ay."

"Even if I ask you not to?"

"First you wanted me to call you, 'Ellie'. Then you tried to tear my head off for doin' it. You don't know what you want."

Miller aggressively sipped her tea. "What I _want_ is some more physical evidence to wash up at our first crime scene. We can't go on with the scraps we've been thrown. It's not enough to convict anyone, even if we could work out who to suspect. We've got to go back there and have a hunt around. Have a bit of a longer chat with the owners of the property."

* * *

The drive out to the estate was mundane. Because neither of them could decide on a radio station they were left with the general static of the world racing by outside. As usual, Hardy stared off into the distance, silently growling at whatever it was caught his attention. Every now and then he broke the silence to complain about something.

"Honestly sir, you are miserable company."

His head rolled slowly back from the window to look at her. "What is it you want to talk about? The weather? I'm _thinking_ Miller. Can't you enjoy the serenity for a while?"

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"Not particularly."

"I think you prefer people when they're dead. At least you can learn their life story without having to share a coffee – sorry – _tea_. What is your problem with coffee anyway? Food in general, actually. You never eat a damn thing unless it's being shoved down your throat under duress. No wonder you look like a seagull with a wonky foot and missing feathers." Miller hesitated when she noticed his gaze shift from default aggravation to actual vexation. "Sorry, sir."

Hardy rolled his head back toward the window. "Don't apologise unless you mean it."

Their car ride returned to silence until, "So, your new house?"

"Be _quiet_ , Miller."


	6. CURSE THESE CLIFFS

He's all about strutting across the lawn in front of the manor and she's all about the half-eaten fruit bar tucked inside her jacket pocket some time last week. Miller fishes it out, peels the wrapper back and takes a bite. Hardy has watched her do this so many times that he can sense it happening without hazarding a look over his shoulder. It's a sixth sense. A 'Miller Radar'. The thought of the congealed fruit treat makes his skin crawl.

"Well, what do you think?" He asked, to distract himself.

"There's been a lot of rain since then. Might as well set the bloody place on fire for all the good it will do."

"Don't give me attitude, Miller… Was your idea to come up 'ere in the first place."

Miller finished off the last of her snack. "I forgot how green it was. That grass is practically carnivorous. If there was ever any evidence left at the scene it's been grown over by now." She wandered sadly down to the lake and knelt near the water.

Images of a very different pool of water flashed across Hardy's view. He couldn't stop the nightmares of his past eating their way into his daylight hours. There was an invisible weight in his arms… A child he couldn't save. The life was gone before he'd even started to search.

"It's a beautiful spot though, isn't it sir?" Miller added, failing to notice Hardy struggle. "Easy to see why they chose it for the 'do'. One thing though, long walk – don't you reckon – from either the road or the carpark?"

"Fairly decent one, yeah." He agreed.

"And there's absolutely no way any rapist walked in from anywhere else – I don't care how motivated they were. We're bloody miles from anything. So, thinking about that," she left the water and roamed closer to one of the ancient oaks lounging nearby, "they either parked in front of your CCTV or hitched a ride on that road. The only thing coming up or down at that hour were the taxi services."

"What's your point?"

"We go back through every taxi that came up this way and their fares – cross-check the cash transactions to witness statements and see if we come up short. Same with the plates. If anyone's car is there and they weren't invited to the party, we know we're got something.

Hardy scratched his head. "I can see where you're going with this but what happens if it really is one of the guests? There's too many of them."

"We can narrow those down with the other rapes."

"It's circumstantial at best and you know that."

"I'm not suggesting we hold this up in court as our sole defence but it might give us a better idea of where to look."

"You know what else is circumstantial?"

"Sir?"

"Walking right beside the cliff where your husband was murdered."

"Thank you. 's not like I haven't thought about that a thousand times already today. I can't help where I was. It's not as if I knew Joe was going to go and get himself murdered right on my usual walk home. If I had known I might 'ave brought my car. How stupid would I have to be to plan a murder like that? Honestly, I could understand if there was a bit of finesse because I assure you, if it were me, I'd have taken my-"

"Miller, I'm going to ask you a question. Answer if you like but you don't have to. Have you been spendin' time plotting Joe's murder in your head?"

"It was part of therapy!" She defended. "Envisioning your desires can help prevent you from acting them out. I imagined drowning him in a bucket of chip-shop oil – bashing his head in with the shovel from our garden – locking him in the car with the engine on and the garage door down – tying him to the back of the boat and leaving him in the bay – shoving the-"

"-I get the picture… At least it wasn't any of those." It wasn't so much that Hardy minded the graphic descriptions of Joe's much deserved death but it was probably better Miller didn't say anything that he might be forced to repeat to DI Rhodes.

"-but the way this all ended? It lacked creativity. Revenge murders are statistically ritualistic. The killers murder out of passion and devote time after death to their victim. This was – like a slap in the face, see you later and over the cliffs."

"Do you think Joe knew his attacker?"

"Impossible to say but it's a good bet considering everyone knows everyone. Either way, I think it was opportunistic. What?"

"Well that looks even worse for you. As you've said, you just happened to be there."

"If he wasn't bloody dead, I'd kill him again for being such a prick."

"Hey..." Hardy nodded at a figure wandering down the gentle hill toward them. It was an elderly man carrying a cricket bat. "Isn't that our mansion owner?"

* * *

Miller stared at the evidence bag on the back seat with the cricket bat inside. "Knowing what was used to knock our victim unconscious does not help us very much." She admitted.

"Well it tells us that they didn't bring their own weapon – so perhaps they did not intend for the rape to turn violent."

"Or they knew that they'd be able to get their hands on something when they got here – which is not much of a stretch when you saw all the great big bloody branches left laying around near the lakes. If it hadn't been the cricket bat it could have easily been one of those."

"We know that the man who swung this was almost certainly right handed."

"Any of our suspects left handed?"

"No…"

"Typical."

"Try not to be so grouchy, Miller. You're interfering with my natural state."

"Oh ay and since when do you masquerade around all teenage-pensive-angst? It's that one you've got living with you. Teenagers. They rub off on the parts of your life you don't expect."

"Your one hasn't done that to you."

"I used to be _nice_."

All Hardy could do was nod slowly. He could see it now – the timid, polite Miller making everyone tea they don't want. That must have been the Miller before he arrived. Perhaps it was him not Tom that had her mood set.

"Well, aren't you going to say something?"

They were pulled up at the set of lights and Miller used the time to fix her stare on him. "Only that – you're right – the bat doesn't tell us very much. At least we can stop looking for the weapon. Brian will be pleased. Give him something to do for the afternoon."

"Brian isn't even talking to you..."

* * *

"Thank you ah..." he lifted his hand, attempting to stop the officer from leaving. "What is this?"

"CCTV – from the fair – as you asked."

"Oh right. Yeah. Thank you." Rhodes settled on, nodding as the officer closed the door to his office. He tore through the plastic packaging and dumped the USB stick on the table. He tapped it in consideration. It was unusual, he had to admit, to be sharing a piece of evidence with a parallel case. Part of him, the deeply suspicious corner of his heart, wondered if there could be a link between the murder of Joe Miller and the serial rapist. No matter how he tried to put the pieces together, it didn't make any sense. They were incongruous. Sometimes the universe tossed a coincidence into the mix to keep the detectives guessing. This, he figured, must be one of those times. Regardless, it made him uneasy.

* * *

"Oh, should we be worried?"

Hardy loomed over Miller's shoulder. They were at her desk, unpacking the cricket bat into a box for forensics. Miller had noticed the closed door on Rhodes' office. "I have my door shut all the time."

"That's not much of a bench mark, sir. Well, I'll walk this down to the lab. You be right here – on yer own?"

Hardy slid his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm not a lost puppy."

* * *

"Presents? I knew you'd remember my birthday eventually." Brian was delighted with a grin half as wide as the cliffs were high. It was a vision tarnished by his blue gloves and blood up to his elbows. "Don't worry about this one. Fishing accident. Jeff was just showing me around the body, part of my ongoing education."

"Your extracurricular activities are none of my business." Miller replied. "We've got our weapon. Not much of a goer but see what you can find." She was momentarily distracted by the congealed blood oozing along the gloves. "We'll ah – continue this later I think. Upstairs."

"You seeing Shitface, then?"

"What?! No!" Miller stumbled into the table. "What the hell, Brian?"

"Wasn' me saying it, Ellie."

Miller drew back in horror. "Who's been saying it? Brian..."

"Mostly the whole station."

"Oh my god – I'm going to ring his scrawny bloody neck!"

Brian frowned. "How will that help, then?"

"It won't but it'd make me feel better." Suddenly Miller felt like a headache and food poisoning wafted over her all at once. "You're not just 'avin' a go, are you? People really saying that?"

"They said it was mentioned in the trial so it must be true."

"The same trial that saw Joe get off!" This was not her life. This was not her world. She could tell without having to ask that Brian thought it was true. "Well, we didn't. Aren't. Never going to. Gawd, does he know?"

"Doubt it. Doesn't come out of his office often enough to hear anything much."

"And Rhodes?"

Brian paused in the middle of dragging his disgusting gloves off. "Who could tell what that man is thinking. Not sure I like him, actually."

"You don't like anyone, Brian."

"I like you well enough."

Miller was biting her lip before she'd even said it. Too late. Couldn't take that one back. "Despite the difficult fact that he's investigating me for the murder of my husband, he seems nice – you know. Kinda ordinary."

"No one thinks you killed him, Ellie." Brian assured her. "That much I can tell you. Mostly they think it was Mark. Wouldn't blame him it was. Sorry – Ellie. Joe was still your husband. I didn't mean-"

"Fuck it. He deserved to go off that cliff. I hope he was bloody petrified, the cowardly shit."

* * *

The cliffs were blushing in the afternoon. Their peculiar mix of chalk and sand didn't quite work, much like the town itself. From a distance it presented as a sleepy, seaside paradise but up close there was just a bit too much dirt and eyes watching from ever corner. Funnelling the nation's attention onto Broadchurch had changed it forever. Its innocence was decimated and the money was gone. You only had to peek at the Trader's empty bar to see evidence of that.

Ellie and Beth wandered along the tide line. Fred stumbled along beside, covered in sand with a huge grin on his face.

"Was it here?" Beth asked, pausing with her gaze on the cliffs. There was nothing different about this stretch of beach except a feeling in her soul. Peace.

"Yeah – over there, closer to the face of the cliffs." Ellie pointed. There was still a fragment of police line stuck in the sand. "That's where I saw him. Face up. Lyin' there. They wouldn't let me get a good look in case I kicked the living shit out of him again."

Beth was transfixed by the empty stretch of sand. "I know that cost us the trial but I don't blame you for it any more. We can't always control our rage and yours must have been horrific."

"I'd have killed him then and there if they hadn't pulled me off. It was a feeling – here..." Ellie clutched her fist against her chest. "Like an instinct that he needed to die so that we'd all be safe." Her hand eventually relaxed and she exhaled the breath that had been circling her lungs. "I didn't believe it when DI Hardy told me the truth but now I look back and I think I didn't _want_ to believe, instead. I kept going over and over the last few months of our life in my head, looking for gaps and when I started picking at the seams it-" Miller swallowed a rising sob. "There _were_ gaps. I keep wondering, if I had paid more attention maybe..."

"Don't do it to yourself, Ellie. I've been there," Beth insisted. "It's not an easy place to come back from."

Ellie turned and said softly, "You're not really back, are you?"

"I have to be, with Mark off _God knows where_ and the little one running around. I've got two girls to raise and I don't want their childhood ruined by this. We've suffered enough." Beth tilted her head backwards, looking up to the edge of the ridge. It was a sharp line, dividing the cliffs from the blue sky. "God I wish I'd done it."

"Yeah..." Ellie sighed. "Me too."

* * *

Evening had begun to settle when Ellie returned home, child in one arm, dinner in the other.

"Takeaway – _again_." Her father muttered from the lounge.

She was growing tired of his judgement. There was too much of it going around town at the moment but she didn't have the energy to fight with him and honestly couldn't afford the childcare if he left in a huff. "It'll be out in a moment. Where's the large, sulky child?"

"In his room. Same as always. When _I was a boy_ we-"

"Please. Dad. Let's at least eat first. Tom's not even here to appreciate that you grew up in the 1400's."

"It ages you. When you talk like that."

* * *

Dinner was quiet – awkwardly so with her eldest staring at his fork and her youngest pushing vegetables from one side of the plate to the other. Even her father was making an effort to irritate her by detailing the history of takeaway food in Britain.

"When are you going to do it, then?" Her father asked, catching Miller off guard. For the first time that night, even Tom paused and lifted his attention to his mother.

""Do what?" She replied, shaken from her oblivion.

"Change yer name. It can't go on, sweetie. You should have done it a years ago – when this thing first happened. It doesn't look right, you carrying on with that name. Think of Fred and Tom."

"Oh not you too." She let her fork drop to the plate. "Look, I already told you, I couldn't change my name when we were still married. He's only been dead a week – what did you expect me to do? Race down to the registry office? Well, if you haven't noticed, we've been on a case-"

"-oh, a _case_. Always a case."

"Yes, Dad. _A case._ It's my job!"

"Your job is these two sitting at the table."

"Not this again… I can't do this with you again…" Miller held her head in her hands.

"In my day, a mother-"

"Right!" She pushed herself out from the table with a vicious screech on the floorboards. "If you think I'm such a bad mother!"

Miller didn't really have a continuation to that threat so she grabbed her handbag and stormed out the front door. She didn't get far, laying back against it for a moment while hot tears ran down her face. It was impossible to explain but her father had a knack of tearing the duct tape holding her soul together. This was a special form of torture where he got to sit around all day thinking up the best ways to dredge guilt up from her past. Well the truth was that he only did it because he was _never_ there for them when they were kids.

Rationally, she knew this came from his own self loathing but she couldn't stop herself from being upset.

"Damn it. Whatever."

Miller decided it was time for a drink.

* * *

Miller ambled past the Trader's Hotel and stopped to peer in the partially frosted window. Same crowd as usual. Leering old geezers glued to their chairs, making life miserable for Becca. There was a moment when Miller considered going in to give her some company but she was all out of generosity this evening.

There were other bars and pubs. In Broadchurch they were strictly divided into three categories; teenage hovels, desperate mid-life crisis and institutionalised alcoholics… Miller settled on the second option and slipped into The Stunned Mullet where the lights were mercifully low and the air pulsing with an unidentifiable dance track.

Bourbon – like her father. Even her choice of drink vexed Miller as she settled back in the leather couch. She'd been there for nearly twenty minutes before she recognised the man sitting next to her.


End file.
